Capitol Punishment
by Claratrix LeChatham
Summary: The Games have been won. The story is just beginning.
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

The anthem played, and as it drew to a close, the president stepped out onto the stage. A fair-haired boy in a white suit, carrying a small wooden box, quickly joined him. As the last strains of the anthem faded, the president made his speech, reminding the districts (and the Capitol) of the Dark Days, the beginning of the Hunger games, and their rebirth, twenty-five years before.

Everyone had heard the same spiel before, from the mouths of the respective districts' mayors at the reapings.

"On the first Quarter Quell, seventy-five years ago, as a reminder that the Hunger Games were a product of the rebels' own choice to turn to violence, every district held an election to determine their tributes."

It was customary for the previous Quarter Quells to be described, leading up to the drawing of the new Quell.

"On their fiftieth anniversary, the second Quarter Quell," the president continued, "as a reminder that for each Capitol citizen, two rebels died, every district sent in twice the number of tributes."

Though the crowd observing was clearly restless, the president went entirely uninterrupted.

"On the third Quarter Quell, only twenty-five years ago, as a reminder that even the strongest among the rebels are dwarfed by the power of the Capitol, all tributes were reaped from the existing pool of victors."

Every face, every camera in the room turned towards the President's face, as he drew a crisp, yellowish envelope marked '100'. Slowly, almost reverently, he slid his finger through the crease, and drew out a square of paper, even smaller than the envelope.

"Now, we honor our fourth Quarter Quell," he said, looking down and reading, without hesitation, "On the one hundredth anniversary of the Hunger Games, as a reminder to the rebels that the Capitol does not discriminate between the district citizens in punishment meted out, the tributes will be reaped from one collective bowl, regardless of district and gender."

It took a moment for understanding to ripple through the crowd, but quickly, the television audience was on it's feet, applauding, and the anthem was playing.

Even throughout the districts, there was hope replacing the apprehension that had hung heavily only half an hour before. If the reaping was not individual to any single district, couldn't, just maybe, one or two of them be spared?

**-x**

**I just had to get this out there. I'm writing a sequal to A Capitol Experience, so you all know the drill. Every tribute gets a chapter, every reader can be a sponsor. **

**Let me know what you think of the characters as I go along. _You _have a lot of influence!**

_This update's question_: What do you think of this year's Quarter Quell?


	2. Diele, District One

**District One, Diele Hobel**

As much as I love training- the way it makes me feel, the way it's made me look- I've never been a huge fan of the Hunger Games. It's not really the death or the blood that bothers me, so much as the fact that District One even has to participate.

Equality of treatment is the most important thing. But the thing is, we never rebelled. We stuck by that sorry Capitol of ours through two rebellions, and we still lose at least one citizen a year. And it's not fair. My _real _father died fighting in their stupid army, and yet, Dolabra still risks her life every year at the reaping. They say it will be different this year, but I don't see how. We can still only volunteer for people from our district, which means, judging by District One's size, at least two of us will end up in the arena.

There is really no good reason to even get up. So, even once I'm awake, I stare at the freshly painted white ceiling, and don't even consider leaving my bed. The whole reaping is televised, anyway, at mid-day. Of course, our attendance is required in the square half an hour early, because the volunteering and such will be held in the district, though the drawing of names is not.

Downstairs, I can hear my mom making breakfast. The smell wafting through our ventilator tells me that it is cinnamon toast, Dolabra's favorite. She will be awake already, no doubt, and pestering mom to let her help. For a fourteen, she is shockingly innocent of the danger we will all be in.

Grumbling, my stomach urges me out of the comfort of my bed. I hate cinnamon toast, but I would never tell my sister that. She deserves all the enjoyment she can get on a day like today, or, as a matter of fact, on any day. I love my sister, more than I love anyone in Panem, and I will not drag her back from anything she wants to do.

I know that my hair in general is a lost cause, so I rush out of my room without even glancing in a mirror. I know perfectly well what I'll see; a pair of slightly squinty eyes that I got from my dad, a too-skinny nose, and a puckered scar on my chin from an infected spider-bite when I was little. I am not pretty, like Dolabra is, but I am definitely not repellant.

The kitchen awaits me, and I bound down the slightly squeaky old staircase to my family below.

"Diele!" my sister squeaks, running to me and hugging me tight before I can react. It is a lucky thing that I am used to her, because any other person would be throttled if they attempted the same thing. "Good morning! Did you sleep well?"

Gently, I pry myself free.

"As well as I could, Dolly. What's mom making?"

She loves being called Dolly, because her friends used to tease her for having an 'ugly name'. She knows as well as I do that, our mother being a historian, we were both named after early versions of the Guillotine, but she is more concerned about what other people think. I've had to adjust to it, ever since she quit training when she was six. My sister and I are very different people.

"It's cinnamon toast! _I'm _helping!"

I follow her into the cooking area, where mom is slicing a large, fluffy loaf of real District One bread. Though we have access to the produce of most other districts, ours is definitely the finest, with just a touch of sweetness.

There is a stack of toast on the counter next to our old stove that is already finished, and I grab a piece, wolfing it down despite my dislike for the taste.

"In a hurry, Diele?" mom asks, buttering another slice and handing it to my sister to be covered in cinnamon.

"Yeah, I'm heading to the training center early. There's a swimming competition going on in about fifteen minutes."

The excuse is completely fabricated, and I realize halfway through that if I don't come home with my hair wet, she'll realize my bluff.

"I'm… watching it. One of my friends is entered."

She nods, barely looking up from her cooking.

"Get dressed, first. And be sure not to wake Tweed while you're up there. He told me he didn't want to be woken until eleven, and you know how he is."

More 'yelled' than told, but I neglect to mention that, and nod to my mom. I wasn't planning on showing at the center in my nightclothes. I really am going there, but not for the reason my mom thinks.

Once I am dressed, I hug Dolabra goodbye, and race off, throwing on a jean jacket as I go. It's not the most fashionable thing I own, but it has thick Kevlar expertly threaded through the denim. It will stop one of the training center's dull arrows, in case my meeting with Opal goes bad.

Though she is my friend, and I could most likely kill her in a fair fight, she is far more unpredictable than I am. And far less honorable, though I will never claim to be the sort to _always_ stick to a clean fight. I prefer to win.

We are meeting, not because of a fight, however, but to discuss a change of plan. I am eighteen, and she is seventeen, so we were planning to volunteer in successive years, while at the height of our training proficiency. As little as I like the games themselves, there is something… appealing in the idea of being a victor. Maybe then, I would have some friends I wouldn't have to protect myself from. Maybe I could meet a guy, a good guy, and get mom and Dolabra away from Tweed.

It's a lot of maybe's, but I'm at the top of my training class, and I figure it's worth a shot. Or maybe it isn't. That's what Opal and I are going to figure out.

I have a morning pass for the center, so swipe it and walk straight through the double doors.

On the far side, by the archery range, a few boys are shooting. None of them look older than sixteen, and they're whooping and slapping each other's backs whenever one of them makes a good shot. I ignore the pang of longing for companionship that's nestling in my stomach, and head to the break area, where I can see Opal's mass of frizzy blonde hair over the little half-wall that surrounds it.

When I reach her, she nods to me and motions that I should sit down.

"My mom forbid me to volunteer," she says curtly, and her forehead wrinkles up in anger.

I am shocked.

"Why? What happened?"

"I'm too _young_," she hisses, like the word is some kind of vile swear.

"Well, then I can't very well volunteer, either."

She looks up from her brooding, smiling faintly.

"Really? You'd give that up?"

Of course, I neglect to mention how little I'm really sacrificing. Aside from my dream of escaping…

"Yeah. You're my friend."

We sit in silence for a second, though in the ensuing awkwardness, it feels like about half an hour.

"Okay, then. So… I guess I'll go spar with Flicker, than. I'll see you at the reaping."

She walks off, and I feel a ball of stress in my stomach release. I was expecting much worse. Opal can really surprise you, sometimes.

I have about twenty minutes to burn, since mom thinks I'm at a swim meet, so I walk over to the specialized weaponry station. For a few minutes, I try to hit a human-sized target with a throwing star, but I only succeed in cutting my finger.

Specialized weaponry is my least favorite place, but I'm already ace at swordplay and archery. My trainer, Lumil, who comes once a week, says I need to adjust to other weapons in case the arena is something like last year, when it was based on a primitive shopping center, and the only weapons were long, thin knives attached to the heels of feminine shoes.

The boy who won, Fennel something-or-other from District Eleven, figured out how to attach them to his hands, and impaled his way to victory. I'm not that creative, apparently, so my best bet is supposed to be being good at a lot of things.

All of the sudden, I realize that it doesn't matter. I'm not volunteering. Lumil is going to kill me, but another weight is lifted off my shoulders. There is no longer a chance of dying in the games, because I won't be in them!

I feel giddiness shoot through me. Opal Civid, messenger of happiness. Who would have guessed it? Without even thinking, I pick up a mace and gleefully destroy a dummy. It doesn't matter how well I do, because I'm not going! Ha!

The center is suddenly a much warmer and friendlier place. An hour slips by, and I can barely restrain myself from skipping home. Before I open the door, though, I stop. A male voice is yelling something unintelligible, and a female one is shrieking back.

Mom and Tweed are fighting. If I know Dolabra, she has retreated to the room we share, and is sitting on her bed, covering her ears.

Suddenly, I can't believe how selfish I've been. I can't let my little sister live like this, even though he _is_ her father. There are worse parents out there, much worse. There are people who hit their kids, like Opal's dad. What Tweed does isn't very much better, though. For the most part, he leaves me alone, but nothing Dolabra does is good enough. He's called her ugly, and stupid, and weak, because she won't train and she loves her friends, and I hate that I can't shield her from his words, like I could if he hit her.

Even though she knows that she isn't, I can tell that she sometimes wonders if he is right. Mom can see what he does, but he has a job, which is more than she can say for herself.

If I don't volunteer, nothing is going to change. I can't hold on to that happy feeling that surrounds my safety, and I barge in through the door, yelling, "I'm home!"

The voices stop, and mom wearily looks over from her argument.

"Diele. Good to see you. Go upstairs and see how Dolly is, will you?"

"But, mom, don't we want good seats at the reaping? We ought to go now, or we won't be able to see the drawing."

She sighs.

"She's right, Tweed. Why don't you go get ready. We'll go in a bit."

He looks horribly upset, and shoots me a dirty look, which I mimic. My stepfather never grew up. He was always a spoiled little Jeweler's kid, and he always will be. He never trained, and never got a real job other than his dad's business. I hate him, almost as much as I hate the kids at school who are like him.

At least I can stop the kids from hurting my little sister.

We dress for the reaping, quickly and quietly. The little house is so tense, there's really nothing that can be said. I leave my jacket on over my dress. Opal is never going to forgive me.

**-x**

**There will be one collective chapter of the reaping, since there will only be one actual reaping. PM me for details on how it works, since I'm not sure how to have a character think about it that deeply.**

**Thanks for keeping up with this!**

This Update's Question: Do you prefer past- or present-tense?


	3. Lycra, District One

**District One, Lycra Dietrich**

Being alone sucks. It's even worse than my jerk of an ex, Collar. I would almost prefer to hang out with that loser, Opal, than lie awake, alone, in my room. Almost.

I like school more than most of my friends do, purely because of all the people. People are always the same; they are always stupid, drooling, morons, who couldn't find their way out of a jewelry shop if they had President Norris himself demanding that they do so. I can make them do what I want, well, most of them, anyway. I can't control that heavy silence, and the echoing of my heartbeat in my skull.

Control is something I enjoy very much indeed. Don't get me wrong, there are other things I really, really like. Normal things. Like drinking lemon-water, the way clothes smell when you've just bought them, and fencing lessons. Sleeping in, while on that list, is relatively far down. So I decide to get up. My dad will have made breakfast already, and I am uncomfortably hungry.

We live in a one-story house, so despite the size, my walk to the dining room doesn't take very long. Dad is still in the process of cooking, so I must have gotten up earlier than I thought. I pad up behind him silently, waiting until I am six inches away to say, loudly, "What's for breakfast?"

He drops his spatula, whips around, and very nearly smacks me, but for my squatting down at the last second. Despite my position, he sees me, and relaxes.

"Lycra, don't _do _that."

I laugh, and don't apologize. My parents already hate me, so what's the point of trying? Their loss. I wrinkle up my nose.

"What_ is_ that stuff?"

"I'm making tomato and cheese omelets," he says, washing off the spatula and resuming his work over a frying pan.

"You know I'm not eating that, right?"

"Please, Lycra, it's only ten o'clock. If you're going to be a pain, go back to sleep."

_He_ must have gotten up later than usual, then. And on the wrong side of the bed, to boot.

"Where's mom?" I ask, flopping down in one of the dining room chairs.

"She's at work. Your uncle took the week off, so she's filling in for him. You know that. She complained about it all through dinner last night"

I sigh, rolling my eyes at him. My dad is a very good-looking guy, though he is nearly fifty. His blond hair is going grey on the sides, and his face is covered in tiny lines and wrinkles. He is an obvious trophy husband, even now. My mom owns her family's jewelry shop, and though she bought out uncle Tweed, she still employs him.

The omelets smell gross.

"I'm going out," I mutter, running back to my room, changing out of my nightclothes and brushing on some makeup. I'm hot without it, of course, but it makes me feel more comfortable.

Once I've brushed, pinned, and styled my hair appropriately, I march back out, through the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, "I'll try to find some decent food while I'm out!"

Though the door is shut before he can reply, I can almost hear the disapproving sigh. My father doesn't have any power over me, and I like it that way. I am left wondering where to go. The reaping is not for nearly two hours, though there are sure to be some people setting up at the square already in the hopes of finding a better seat.

For me, at least, it doesn't matter. I have a little hand-held television, and when I volunteer for whatever District One sap is called first, I won't need to worry about whether or not I can see the screen; I'll be on it.

I suppose I could head over. I'd be sure to meet up with a few of my friends on the way. I just don't want to. Instead, I walk the three blocks to La Flor, and grab a cream cheese and marmalade melt to-go. I'll eat it in the break room at the training center, which I have decided is my destination of choice. I have to walk across the street that leads to the square, so there is still some probability that I'll see a friendly (most likely vapid, but still friendly) face.

Of course, I don't. Instead, I run headlong into my cousin, Diele. More accurately, she is my step-cousin, and I will not claim anything otherwise. Who would _want_ to be related to _that_?

She has no friends, except for the deranged outcast, Opal What's-her-face. And even she barely counts as a friend, since during a training lesson last year she flipped out and speared Cadence Radcliff through the shoulder. Before that, she was just a loner. Now, she and all who associate with her are just plain freaks. Cadence was my friend.

Cousin It snorts disgusting, and declines to help me up. I simply sniff, in a much more refined way. Her hair is messy, and she isn't wearing _any_ makeup.

"Walk much, bitch?" she asks.

"Try me, freak."

My uncle, who didn't look so happy to begin with, is tapping his foot.

"Stop it, Diele," her mother scolds.

"Stop what?" she retorts, her eyes not even flickering away from mine.

"Being obnoxious. We're going to be late."

Her little sister follows her mother as she begins to walk towards the square, but I have to inject a last word, before my 'cousin' goes.

"Yeah, don't be late. You wouldn't want to miss _my_ reaping," I say, smirking.

"You wouldn't!" she hisses, though my uncle is urging her to follow her mother.

"I will," I reply, all but skipping away. I know better than anyone how much Diele wants to win. When we were young, I suppose we _were _friends. She doesn't like my uncle, at all, but at least she used to like me. As she stalks off, I can see her mother stroke her hair, and whisper something to her.

My stomach hurts. I thought it would feel better than this, to finally beat her at something. I thought it would stop the envy. But it doesn't. Maybe because I haven't won, yet. At least I know that she never will. Diele may be eighteen, and stronger than me, and better at training, but this is her last year. If I can stop her now, I stop her permanently.

When I win, my mother will have to notice me, to acknowledge that I'm not some stupid, ditzy, disappointment like she seems to think I am. If Diele is such a freak, why doesn't anybody except for me hate her?

I've lost my appetite. At the next garbage bin, I toss my uneaten melt in.

The training center doesn't seem inviting any more, but I can't go home. My dad will still be upset about my comment on his cooking, even if I didn't really mean it _that _badly. It's an okay part of town, at least, so I sit down on a bench to watch the people go by, passing me on their way to the reaping.

People-watching always makes me feel small, but I need a way to take my mind off things. I don't know most of the faces that walk by, but there is something soothing about blending in, every so often. It's not as good as being the center of attention, but I figure there will be time enough for that in the Hunger Games. They're really just a giant spotlight, waiting to be trained on someone new. Someone who really, really wants it.

Someone who has a stupid older cousin to put to shame. And then I remember it. The Quarter Quell. So easy to forget, this year, because so little change has been made. But it means that more than two District Ones can go into the arena. And more than one of them can be a girl.

I am suddenly presented with a choice. I could choose to step out of the way, for a year, and let Diele enter. There's not an over-large chance that she will win, at any rate, but if she does, I will never live it down. No amount of winning can erase the fact that, not only did she do it, _Diele did it first_. Or I could volunteer, knowing that Diele, who is stronger and bigger and faster than me, will be breathing down my neck, just dying for the chance to run me through. At least, that's what I think she'd do. Diele is as unpredictable as a fresh diamond mine.

Maybe I should go to the training center, after all.

_No_, I tell myself. _No, you're being silly. You are as strong as you are ever going to be. You just need to believe it. Believe that you don't need other people's help to succeed._

If I believe it, why are my knees shaking?

"Oh jeeze, Lycra, where the heck have you been? Clarity and I have searched the entire _district_ for you!"

A shrill voice interrupts me, and I look up, immediately snapping out of it.

"God, Plush, you're such a spaz," I reply, looking up at her eager, slightly sweaty face. Her mascara is running horribly, but she has managed to keep her hair looking decent. "You're a mess. Why do I hang out with you two?"

She just smiles, like a lost puppy.

"Have you _already _lost Clarity?"

"Nah, she's at the square. We saw your mom and dad there, but we couldn't find you, so I left her there and came looking for you! Wow, you're really late!"

"No duh," I snap, checking my watch. How long did I waste? It's nearly eleven twenty, and the speech starts at eleven thirty. "Well, what are you waiting for? A freaking invitation? Let's get to the square!"

Plush is not my best friend, not by a long shot, but I feel some comfort in having another personality, if a dull one, with me as I dash to the square. She trails doggedly behind me.

I reach into my purse, pulling out my handheld TV. We're not late. There is still time enough for anything, anything and everything to happen.

With a false air of calm, I suck in a deep breath. This year, I am going to win. Not for anyone else, not for that stupid Diele, or my stupid parents, or the morons I call my friends. I am going to win for _me_.

**-x**

**Ooh, I don't think I like her very much. Do you?**

_This update's question:_ What constitutes a girl who is truly mean?


	4. Chalice, District One

**Chalice Patel**

I have never killed anyone. Before I began training, I never would have even considered it a possibility. Sure, there are people I hate- people I wish would jump off a cliff and die- but I would never _admit_ to hoping for something so vile. I am not a mean person, and sometimes I doubt my capability at even pretending otherwise.

Nothing has ever changed for me. Sure, my parents, my loving, well-meaning parents, promised me that I would lose 'all that baby fat' by the time I was thirteen. Well, look at me now. Or, well, please don't. It's kind of embarrassing. My first trainer said that, with a bit of effort, I could be a real contender. Again, look at me. I have no recognizable muscle, and I can't hit a target with a knife from five paces. My teachers said that if I opened up to people, if I tried hard enough, I could have as many friends as any girl in class. And yet, I walk to the center alone, walk home alone, and spend the school day trying to drown out any comments by the upperclassmen by talking to myself, ceaselessly, promising that _something _has to give.

Even though I say I am an honest person, I'm the biggest liar of the bunch.

District One _never _changes. Everyone_ but _me is too happy with their perfect, perfect lives.

When the mean people take on the nice people, they always win. It's because the nice people fight fairly, or refuse to fight at all, and the true nasties do nothing of the sort.

Why do I even bother getting out of bed? Because I love my parents, and I'm their last child left. All my older brothers, who I grew up with, spent my life with, who were the only ones who bothered to be kind to me, are already dead.

If the Hunger Games have taught me anything, it's that the good guys always finish last. I gave up trying to fight it years ago, when I watched my oldest brother, Elixir, have his throat cut while he slept. Maybe it would have been better if I had any friends at all, but in the following weeks, watching kids draw their fingers across their necks whenever I walked past, I spent every minute I could in the bathroom, hiding in a stall, crying.

All I am is entertainment. I know that if I had some confidence, if I grit my teeth and kept my nose in the air, it wouldn't be as bad. There are girls that can do that, in the older years, at school. Even after Opal Civid got so mad she stabbed a mean girl in the shoulder, no one laughed at her. No one pretended to die when they saw her coming, or called her 'The Impaler' jokingly. Even Lycra stopped trying, after a while.

In Lycra's regard, I am luckily too young to even show up on her radar. She scares me more than anyone else at school, because she can be mean to anyone, about anything, and there's nothing they can do about it. Lycra is rich, and pretty, and she is smarter than people gives her credit for.

I have to get out of bed, eventually. I am only fifteen, only human, and very hungry. After lying awake for so long, there is no chance of falling asleep again.

The clock on my bedside table reads 9:21. My parents will probably not be up until 9:30, so I decide to prepare breakfast, a quick meal of easy-waffles and cane syrup.

Before I leave my room, I try to brush my bangs glamorously to the side, like most of the beautiful girls do. It doesn't work. In frustration, I throw my hairbrush at my bed, and immediately feel bad about it. My hair is the object of my anger, not the brush.

Our kitchen floor is cold on my bare feet, but I shuffle around, undeterred, unwrapping the frozen waffles and sticking them into the oven, timer set to five minutes. I pull the cane syrup from the little fridge, and set it, among with three plates, some silverware, and a stack of napkins, on our kitchen table.

Within a few minutes, the waffles are toasty and warm, and I hear my parents' alarm go off. I suspect that dad hits the sleep button, because it stops abruptly and they do not emerge from their room.

Slowly, I meander to the table, pull out a chair, and gnaw on a waffle, just waiting. I have nothing better to do. When I finish eating, I start in on another, because I'm still hungry, and still bored.

Eventually, my mom groggily steps out of her room, hair a mess and still wearing a floral patterned night dress.

"Chalice, honey, are you already awake?"

"Yes, mom," I reply, looking up from my waffle. "I made breakfast!"

"Oh, sweetie. You know it's reaping day, right? Are you dressed?"

I bite my lip, knowing that she wants me to volunteer, even if she does love me. Her eyes are so clouded by love, in fact, that she thinks I have some ghost of a chance.

"Not yet, mom. I was thinking-" I break off mid-sentence, deciding not to spring the announcement of my not-volunteering later, when she is more awake. "-that I could get dressed after breakfast."

She isn't paying attention any more, slumping down on her chair and pouring syrup on a waffle. I don't really mind, and I go back to my own food.

Silence isn't that uncommon in our house. None of the people left are much for talking. My brother Dixon was always chatty, always friendly, but now that he's gone, the quiet hangs heavy in every corner of our house. Mom and dad cry a lot, but they try not to let me see it.

Every single day, I wish I could have them back.

Dad gets up too, in time, but he is already dressed, and more awake than mom. His grey-streaked blond hair is combed, and he is wearing a nice, blue shirt and some beige slacks.

"How are my two favorite ladies doing this morning?" he asks, in a more cheerful voice than I have heard from him in a while.

"I'm alright, but mom is still hibernating. There are waffles in the kitchen."

He nods, and grabs two for his own plate. Silence descends again, except for the sounds of our chewing.

"Did you sleep well?" dad asks between bites.

"Just fine," I answer, though I did have a dream. Dixon, Elixir, and Nilon were having a party, and I was invited, but no one noticed I was there. I was jostled all around, and once or twice, I nearly caught a glimpse of one of their faces, but before I could make sure it was really them, I was pushed onward by the throng of people, and they were lost again.

Like most of my dreams, it made me anxious, and I could tell from the beginning that it was a dream. But unlike what all those self-help people say, with their fancy TV shows and fake smiles, you can't change a dream. You are just caught up in the endless tide of thoughts, like the crowd of people in the dream itself, and you find that you can't really control your mind. You can't control it any more than you can control the real people around you.

It's better to just acknowledge that from the beginning. Even so, waking up is just as painful.

Breakfast is finished. Mom seems more alert, excusing herself and returning to her room. I follow her lead, and go to my own, leaving dad alone at the table with his thoughts.

My dresser is nothing special, but though the clothes inside of it are bland as it's exterior, the smell reminds me of a comforting hug. I realize, halfway through, that my mom must still think that I am planning to volunteer. It seems that there will not be a good time to tell her, since it is after ten and the reaping is approaching.

Before I go through with it, I need an excuse. I love my mom, and I can't let myself disappoint her.

Quell… It's the Quarter Quell. That is my reason. Too many careers, too strong, and I am too young. It feels threadbare, but I have never been good at making things up, even if they are partially true. I simply do not want to go into the games; I never want to go.

A year passes, or at least, that is what it feels like, but I am too scared to leave my room. I do not want to lie. I am an honest person, at least, on principle I am. Lying to myself doesn't count. I don't believe it, anyway.

I want to be normal, more than anything. I don't want to be one of those despised careers, or one of the many fatalities of the games. History textbooks tell about a primitive time, back before the Capitol existed, back when Panem was North America.

Why couldn't I have been born then?

Lost in thought, I leave my room, fully dressed, my hair as perfect as it will ever be. My mom stops me.

"Chalice, I've been thinking, about this year, the games-"

"So have I, mom," I say, cutting her off.

"I want you to wait another year."

Relieved, I quite nearly pass out with happiness.

"Well, that's okay. I can wait. Don't worry, mom. Don't worry."

"I'm sorry to hold you back like this, baby, but if anything was to happen… I need a few more years. You can wait, can't you?" she pleads, holding my face in her hands.

"Yes, mom," I squeeze out, twisting out of her grip. "That's what I said."

She hugs me close, bone-crushingly tight.

"I don't know what I'd do without my Chalice.

I come very close to saying 'I don't know what I'd do, either,' but I don't. Instead, I hug her in silence, grateful that my sentence has been postponed another year.

Dad is at the door, ready, and I grab my good-luck hat. It's silly, and superstitious, but comforting, nonetheless. It's blue velvet is worn through in patches, but is still soft in my hands.

"Ready to go, Chalice?" dad asks.

I nod.

_Ready to go? _I think to myself,_ I'm safe. If you want me to, I can fly._

**-x**

**Yes, District One is all girls this year. I have my reasons, as I always do. Thank you to everyone who has read so far- I love you all!**

_This update's question_: What district would you place yourself in if given the choice?


	5. Martial, District Two

**Martial Sutter**

I don't like being forced to do anything. I hate being pressured into choices, manipulated, blackmailed, bribed, or anything that interferes with my control over myself.

When people try to make me do what they want, I hurt them. And then they stop. But they whisper things about me, that I am deranged, that I am a killer. They are right. And that is why I am going to win the One Hundredth Hunger Games. I like the way it is. I like how there are no repercussions for murder, and I like that the only rule, kill or be killed, is tilting the playing field in my favor from the beginning.

No one else should even bother showing up. But they will; they always do. And they always die.

People like me kill them. People like Martial Sutter, me. I am eighteen. I cannot remember a time when I wasn't enrolled in training. That isn't saying much, of course. I cannot remember many things.

I can definitely remember the day I killed my father. Before I could understand, I used to think that it was a game, how he and mother tried to hurt each other, like the games boys play in the school-yard. He made the mistake of extending his violence to me. That lasted a day. I broke his neck.

Mom is quieter, now. But she still tells me what to do, and I still hate her. I hate everyone who thinks that I am just an idiot, a plow-horse to be controlled. I am not.

I stay in bed as long as I want to. I'm not sure how long that is, but I know that the lines on the little black box by my bed must mean something.

The only reason I do pull myself out at all is the hunger, gnawing at my gut. Outside, there is food. Food to be eaten. It will make me stronger, if that is possible any more. Hopefully, it is meat.

Meat, in my opinion, is the best kind of food.

Outside of my room, the house is empty. Mom has already gone off to her job as a personal trainer, in another area of the district. Putting her talents as a drill sergeant to good use. At least she can order someone else around for once.

There is some ground meat in the icebox, and I put it on our hot plate. I don't really know how long it will take to get hot, but just watching it will not help. I chew the side of my mouth, but I stop when I bite too hard and it starts bleeding. I don't like the taste of blood. It is too warm, and sticky, and like someone poured a bowl of iron shavings in my mouth. I spit into the sink, and slurp some water from the faucet. Feeling better, I check on my meat.

One side is darkened, but I have to flip it over, because it is pinkish on the reverse pert, that hasn't been touching the plate. It is irritating that it isn't done. I am growing progressively hungrier, and my cheek is still bleeding, and I just want to eat the meat, but I know I can't.

Idly, I consider just going ahead and chewing off what I can, but common sense rules that out. I think I heard somewhere that pink meat is poisonous, but I can't be sure. So I just poke the charred part, and wait.

Waiting is boring. I like getting it done, whatever that means. But I don't have anything to do.

Maybe, if I was someone else, I would sit back and think. I don't like thinking, though. If I do it too much, my head starts to hurt.

I try to think about what day it is, and the answer comes relatively quickly. It's the day that I'm going into the Hunger Games, and we have to be at the square by… eleven and thirty, whatever that means. It sounds like a code, but I'm bad with codes.

My best guess is that it means I need to go to the square in… eleven plus thirty… forty… forty-_on_e minutes.

The meat looks done enough, and I grab it straight off the hot plate. It burns for a while, but things don't hurt me very much. As I gulp it down, I feel the scalding bites smoosh down my throat, but when I reach the center, it's still pinkish, and stone cold.

So I spit that part out, and eat around it. My stomach feels a bit funny, so I just plain stop with the eating, and throw the rest of the meat in the trash can. It was gross, anyway.

I remember, finally, to turn of the hot plate, which has bits of black grease bubbling and oozing and singing on it.

Some time passes, with me cleaning out my fingernails in the sink, and then sort of staring at something or other while I sit on the couch. I'm not much of a thinker, really, at all.

In all likelihood, I should be leaving. For the square, for something, but I am unsure of how soon. Vaguely, I can recall someone telling me that it is better to be early than late, so, after a short period of deliberation, I get up, and head for the door.

Outside, loads of people are moving, and walking, and talking, and it is much louder than it is back in the house. I put on my meanest look, though, and I cut a large swath through the crowd by swinging my arms in wide arcs.

Compared to almost all of them, I am huge. Before competitions, when they weigh you and measure you and poke around in all manner of ways, I have learned that I am nearly seven feet tall, and that I weigh two hundred and eighty pounds.

I'm not quite sure exactly how much that it, but it sounds very important.

No friend catches my eye, and no one speaks to me other than the one or two people who apologize for getting in my way. I prefer it that way. The more people you let in, the more likely that one of hem will be stronger than you.

The only people I even recognize are the crowd of boys, about my age, who I sometimes see at training, and the somewhat more distinct, slightly ratlike face of Lucian Gray, the only boy at school with fewer friends than me.

Surprisingly, I hate him more for it. Rather, I understand why he is disliked, and have been on the receiving end of his tongue before. There is no friendship between us, rather the opposite. I doubt he has ever forgiven me the day I broke his leg, after he tried, and very nearly succeeded at convincing me to hurt a boy who's girlfriend he himself liked.

I am close to the square, which is not yet packed to capacity. As I pass Lucian, I make sure to give him an especially harsh glare, simply because he is a bad person.

Actions have their repercussions, and the people who would hurt others with their voices rather than their fists will be the first to receive the consequences.

Despite everything, I am really not a bad person. Really.

I may not be the kindest, or the smartest person is District Two. But I am nothing, if not fair.

**-x**

**Mmm. I don't exactly like him, but, for my first boy, he is definitely… interesting.**

**Sorry for the delay in updating, yesterday a friend of mine came down from Wisconsin, and we went out to dinner. Good times.**

**Much love goes to everyone who has reviewed!**

_This update's question_: how cold is_ too _cold on the AC when it's 95 degrees outside?


	6. Lucian, District Two

**Lucian Gray**

My name is Lucian Gray, and I will be the first to admit that I am a bad person. If the question was posed, however, there would, doubtless, be at least twenty people lining up to state that fact before me, most of them in various states of anger.

That is to be expected.

Looking at me, you would probably not expect me to be particularly nice. You would quite likely feel bad, for judging a person by the way they look, but you would be right. I am not nice. I am practical. Not only do I embrace survival, but I do my best to tip the scales in my favor.

When you're at a disadvantage, like, say, looking like an overgrown rat, you need all the advantages you can get. Maybe I'm not that bad. Maybe everyone is lying to me, a solution which I could definitely accept. But I don't, because it has made me smarter. Perhaps I am overcompensating, but, if I am the result, more people should do it.

Like I said, I am a bad person. But has a good person ever rightfully won the Hunger Games? Not in my sixteen years, and, very likely, not before that, either.

The arena is no place to be 'nice'.

Of course, like every boy, or girl, for that matter, in the district, I have trained. I haven't liked it much, but I recognize it to be a necessity. After the accident, I spent a blissful two months away from that abominable place. When I finally got back, I was horribly behind, and the whole thing has been down hill ever since.

I don't really understand people, as a whole. I can see that some of us our pretty, that some of us are more intelligent, and that we can be petty and cruel. I just can't see how, I can't read their faces.

A gesture, like turning away, or sarcasm in general, is lost on me. Perhaps my inability to be kind stems from that direction. Perhaps it is genetic. I couldn't care less. It's just who I am.

This is a morning like any other, aside from the obvious. The moment I awaken, I roll out of bed, put on a shirt, and head out the door without even a glance in the mirror on my desk table. I know perfectly well what I look like.

Mom and dad are awake already, dad sipping his coffee, and mom rolling her chair from the kitchen to the table, holding an apple. I think for a second, and remember that they are her favorite fruit.

"Good morning, Lucy!" she coos, and though I recognize my hated nickname, I smile and wish her a good morning as well. She expects it of me.

I join them at the table after heading to the kitchen for an apple of my own, and a glass of water. Dad continues to drink, and mom is absorbed in her apple. I eat and drink quietly; we never talk during mealtimes.

None of us are talkers. Maybe mom would be, but dad and I don't show enough interest in what she has to say.

"I take it you slept alright," dad says, setting down his empty mug.

I continue to eat.

He sighs in exasperation.

"_Did_ you sleep well?"

"Oh. Yes," I reply, distracted. I don't understand implied questions. Dad was stating a fact, and a true one, so I left it alone.

Last night, I had a dream, but it was one of those generic, run-of-the-mill, anxiety dreams. I was late to something, and I tried to ask people how to get there, but I couldn't hear their voices right.

It was nothing dreadful, and I could tell it was a dream at the time, but that didn't stop the brief feeling of panic.

Still, I was rested when I woke up, and I believe that that is what dad is asking about. My parents are used to me, and my difficulties with implications, but that can't break their habit. It's hard to resent something that they really have no control over, but I manage pretty well.

Mom rolls her chair over to our ancient computer, and I stand up.

"I'm heading out a bit early. I'll probably go to the training center. I'll go to the square directly afterwards, so don't wait for me," I say, depositing the core of my apple in the garbage, and leaving my empty glass by the sink.

Back at the table, dad nods, so I head for the door.

"Bye, Lucy!" mom yells after me. "Have fun!"

I grimace, but luckily no one is near enough to overhear. We live a good distance from the center, so I get to stretch quite a bit before I reach it. At least, that's dad's justification.

On my way, a girl I recognize as Vara, from my year, runs headlong into me. I've been absorbed in the pattern of cracks on the sidewalk, so, having no time to steady myself, I am flung back, very nearly falling onto the pavement.

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry… Lucian," she says franticly, stopping when she sees who I am.

"Good morning," I say out of habit.

"No it's not! I can't find my flier! The one with the time for the reaping on it," she explains. "I can't tell my parents I lost it!"

It's no surprise. Vara is terrible at keeping track of things, a fact well-known in our year. Though most people don't bother to read past the emotions, even I, with my lack of understanding, can tell that she is terrified of her mother.

"It's at twelve," I say.

The reaping itself is at twelve. The speech starts at eleven thirty, but that is not the question she asked.

"Oh gosh, thank you!" she says breathlessly, leaning on the building as if for support.

Then she resumes running, and I wonder if she interpreted my meaning correctly. Of course she didn't. I didn't mean for her to. I've been wondering what happens when someone arrives late to a reaping, and Vara makes a good enough guinea pig. I have never liked her, anyway.

As I said before, I'm not a good person. And I don't care. By the time Vara discovers my mistruth, I'll be safe, heading for the arena, as oxymoronic as that sounds.

When I reach the center, I am immediately assaulted by a blast of cold air as an older girl exits. She doesn't notice me, naturally, but walks off in the opposite direction, her mass of curly brown hair bobbing with her footsteps.

I ignore the fact that I am being ignored, and walk in. When I show my pass, the harried secretary nods me in, and I stuff it back into my pocket.

A few girls are at the knife-throwing station, and I overhear them making a comment about the girl who left, calling her 'Demetra', and scorning her ability to throw knives. People like them, I consider worse than me, which is saying something. I hold myself in low moral regard.

You may have noticed.

The center has been designed to mimic the Capitol's location, which explains our tributes' familiarity with it.

Instead of my initial idea to chuck some knives for the remaining hour and a half or so before I need to be at the reaping, I head for the vacant gymnastics station, though I already know that I am only average at it. No need to make a fool of myself doing something I'm terrible at.

Though I have little muscle to speak of, I am light enough to be agile. On the set of double bars, I flip twice on the lower one, enjoying the sensation of acceleration, and I let go at almost the right angle, landing imperfectly, but unharmed.

I hear snickers from the direction of the knife-throwing course, and roll my eyes. I could pass it off as Karma, but I don't. Instead, I filter the noise out, and try some pull-ups, getting to six before I fall. That isn't a new record, but it is the best I have been able to do of late.

The voices have been drowned out by the sound of my own thoughts, and I rest for a few seconds before trying again. I'm still tired, so I can only get four and a half before my right hand slips and takes my left hand with it.

As my back smacks against the blue plastic mat, I snap back into reality, grind my teeth, and go at it again. Most of the time I barely make four, and in fifteen minutes, my muscles, or lack thereof, are thoroughly sore.

I would switch over to the advanced weaponry station, a recent addition that not even the Capitol's center has added, but my arms hurt too much to even think of firing a rifle or holding anything.

Tired, I lope over to the rest area and grab a bottle of water. It takes me longer than usual to open the lid, seeing as my arms would rather fall off than endure anything involving small motor skills. I have to prop one arm on the little table to hold up the water, but I feel a bit better after I've downed half of the lukewarm contents.

A boy, around thirteen, who has been alone at the weight-lifting station since I arrived, walks over and asks me to spot him, and I do. I don't pay very much attention, though, and I nearly crush his fingers.

He tells me that he will find something else to do, and I walk back to my table to finish up the bottle of water. I don't feel bad for scaring him off; I never feel bad for doing anything.

Again and again, I check my watch, hoping that the numbers will progress, despite myself. I _am_ excited for the reaping, and the games. I am not only sure of my decision to volunteer, but, even though I have not been particularly proficient in training, I am certain of my capability to win.

Over and over again, District Two has seen tribute's who's mentality ranges from obtuse to insane. The strategy has seen us eighteen victors over the last hundred years, admittedly proving itself effective.

I do not feel like I am exaggerating when I say I am one of the most clever people in the district. I am not bothered by the conscience so often depicted in stories and interviews with the victors. If I win, I will have no regrets about my actions, and I will enjoy the fruits of my victory, unencumbered by memories.

That is why I have to try, and better sooner than later. I don't particularly enjoy my life as it is. Everything has gone downhill since the accident, four years ago.

Did you know that I used to have friends? I can't remember what happened to them. Did you know that my mom used to be able to walk? That I used to feel bad about things, and cry, and feel happy, like a normal person?

It's death or the arena. And considering the arena's normal circumstances, it may well be both.

I am lost in thought on the walk to the square. I don't really notice much of anything, as per usual. I sit down alone, in the group of Sixteens, though as to why the ages are separated considering the quell, I have no idea.

Certainly, I am ready for it to begin. I am ready for anything, anything that will end in my death or my victory.

I don't even particularly care which.

**-x**

**I'm sorrrry! I've really been trying to stick to one a day, but these last two were particularly difficult characters.**

**Love you all!**

_This update's question_: do you think you could conceivably win the Hunger Games, if you were entered at this very moment?


	7. Demetra, District Two

**Demetra Boise**

I believe that any battle can be won without contact. My tongue is sharper than any sort of weapon, and though I'm not much smarter than the average District Two girl, most of my skill comes from the ability to think on my feet.

In some people's eyes, this is because I rarely filter my thoughts before I express them. It's not so much a conscious choice, however, but more the way I am. My first language is 'snark'.

My parents say I have a strong personality. It's not so much that as it is a sheer inability to be nice. I would prefer to avoid expending effort on trying to be something I clearly am not.

Besides, being extremely opinionated about just about everything comes with perks. For example, it's obvious that the Gamemakers often give a free pass to the tributes that stir up the most drama in the other contestants. And what better way than to contradict everything they say?

When I can't stand to keep my eyes closed any longer, I get up. My room is swirly with light and dust motes, but looks no different than it ever has. I've had almost exactly the same room for eighteen years, tomorrow. My birthday.

I can hear my parents in the dining room outside, and I can picture my little brother puttering around in the garden. He's almost as stubborn as I am, and refuses to switch over from or old push mower to something electric.

He likes yard work, and I detest it, so there's really no way I can argue with him about it. Pity, that.

"Mommm," I groan, walking out of my little room. "I feel oldddd."

She clucks her tongue, and sets down the vase of flowers that she is cutting.

"I wouldn't be surprised, Dem. Eighteen. Wow, soon you'll have to start coloring that mop of yours."

I laugh under my breath.

"You sure have a way of making me feel better about myself, mom. Where'd dad go? I could use a supportive parent right about now."

Resuming her work with the flowers, mom gestures towards the kitchen.

"He's in there. 'Experimenting', he says. I would recommend staying as far away from the kitchen as possible. When Celer finishes up his yard work, I'll send him off to get us some breakfast. You know how your father is."

She nods her head towards the kitchen, and, as if to prove a point, I hear a pot clatter to the tile floor, and an oath in my father's voice.

"I'll take your word for it. I can grab something for myself on my way to the center, though. I need to show off my last day of being a minor, y'know?"

"All too well. Tell Celer that he needs to come in on your way out, okay? And get dressed."

"Child abuse!" I call over my shoulder.

"Cut me some slack, it's my last day of having you as a child," I hear her retort, but the closed door muffles her voice.

I dress myself, and slip on a headband in an attempt to control my hair. It doesn't work. I know there are people who would kill for hair as… voluminous as mine, but it's a major pain.

Mom is absorbed in her floral arrangements, which is a strange hobby for a woman as singularly _tough_ as she is. While a lot of my friends have mothers who raise their little siblings at home, or teach at the local school, I've always been proud of her job as a specialized weapons instructor. It's a male-dominated field, but I like to think that she does better than most.

Outside, Celer is trimming a hedge to mechanical precision. He is so absorbed in his work that I am able to stealthily walk up behind him, finally diving to tackle him, knocking him into the hedge.

"Very funny, Dem. Absolutely hilarious," he grumps, once I stop laughing.

"I know, isn't it? Mom wants you inside for a bit, and she also needs you to pick up some food at Claudia's Deli. Dad's in the kitchen, and no good can come of this."

He snorts, and puts down his shears.

"Why can't you do it?"

"'Cause I'm going to the training center, and I asked first, so forget about asking if you can come with me. Besides," I say, "I'm volunteering this year, so you've obviously got to bend to my superiority."

Snipping a little fly-away branch with a small pair of scissors, I hear him groan.

"Dem, you're only seventeen. Couldn't you stay another year?"

"I want to spend my birthday in the Capitol. Don't worry, once I've won I'll still be eighteen, and you guys can celebrate then."

"Are you sure about… everything?" he asks, though I can tell by his face that he doubts me. I heave a sigh.

"Have you ever known me not to be?"

He punches my shoulder, and ducks my return shot.

"I think that's usually your ego talking."

I start to walk away, but stop.

"You had better not tell dad! He'll make a huge deal out of it all, and maybe even stop me."

"Alright, but you owe me one. And so help me, if you die…"

I turn around, walk over, and surprise us both by hugging him.

"Ease up, Celer. I'll be fine. I promise."

When I walk away again, he doesn't call me back. I just hope I haven't lied to him. Celer's only a year younger than me, and I guess we're kindred souls in more than one way. He's just a bit smarter than me, and he has more friends, probably because he is capable of being nice.

I head straight to the center, figuring I can grab some bacon on my way to the square. I'll be hungrier, anyway, after I train for a bit.

There are uncomfortable butterflies in my stomach at the thought of entering the games, and I try to usher them away by thinking of what I'll do in the center. There will probably be a few people I know, but I'm not into socializing. Maybe I'll work on something I'm less than good at, like throwing knives or archery.

My aim is pretty hopeless, and it always has been.

The center is frigid in comparison to the sun-scorched streets. I shake off a shiver as I walk in, flashing my card to the secretary. She sighs, and ushers me in.

A chalky, slightly plastic-y smell comforts me, as it is something familiar. I breathe deeply, feeling my tension leave me. How could I have ever though it possible that I couldn't win? I am strong, I am capable, and I am smart. I am a career, and a darned good one.

Metella and Dives wave to me from the knife-throwing station, and I walk over to join them.

"Hey, Demetra! Happy almost birthday!" Dives calls, as Metella grunts in concentration, and releases a knife.

"Thanks, Dives," I reply, sitting next to her on the bench. "Are you going to give us a turn, Metella?"

"Stuff a sock in it," she snaps, "I only just started. Besides, Demetra, you're terrible at knife-throwing. You've repeated that on many occasions."

"That doesn't mean I can't try," I say, pouting exaggeratedly.

She chucks the knife she's throwing especially hard, and it embeds itself hilt-deep in the wooden mannequin's forehead.

"A little off-center, there," I call out, and she growls.

"Shut up!"

It's far too fun and too easy to get Metella riled up, and Dives and I giggle. Even though our friend is an incredible at throwing knives, she gets mad too easily to win the Hunger Games, which is why she's refused to enter.

She knows her faults as well as we do, but that doesn't stop her from showing off her strong points.

"You know what, Demetra? Why don't you try. We'll see how well you do!" she steams, after ten minutes of Dives and I poking at her.

I walk up, and she throws herself into my seat, grouching about what terrible friends she has. I know full well that I'll get the same treatment she did, probably worse because of my terrible aim, but I find it much funnier than Metella does.

My first knife hits the dummy's hand, and it doesn't even stick in the wood because I haven't thrown it hard enough.

I roll my eyes as Metella laughs, and Dives calls out "Magnificent! I hope you're taking notes here, Metella."

"I am," she replies, "and I'm heading the sheet 'how not to throw knives'."

My next shot I throw too hard, and miss completely, my knife clattering to the floor after encountering the solid granite wall twenty feet behind the dummy.

"Do you have something against that poor wall?" Metella yells.

Though I usually don't take the bait, I can't resist.

"He… he… dented my favorite knife," I say somberly, wiping away a false tear. "I've never forgiven him."

After I fail at throwing knives for another ten minutes or so, Dives goes up and the process is repeated. By the time she's finished, I am absolutely starving, and my throwing arm is sore.

"I'm heading to Claudia's for some breakfast. Are either of you two hungry?"

"Nah," says Metella, "our cook made some prime food this morning. Otherwise I would totally go, but I'm stuffed."

Dives shakes her head as well.

"My parents force-fed me this weird egg and cheese thing. I don't think I'll be able to eat dinner, at this rate."

I stick my tongue out at them.

"Thank you for caring so much about me. I'm honored to be your friend," I say, and begin to walk away. When I've almost reached the door, I call over my shoulder, "By the way, I'm volunteering! See you at the reaping!"

And then I rush off, knowing they'll call after me, but won't pursue. As I'm walking out the door, I nearly knock over a boy who's about half a foot shorter than me, but doesn't seem to even notice I'm there.

I run off down the street, feeling my muscles flex into a pattern. I like running.

Claudia's is pretty full, as most restaurants are on the day of the reaping. I surreptitiously cut in front of a younger girl who looks lost in the clouds, and I am at the counter to order in less than ten minutes.

"Bacon and egg wrap with syrup," I say, adding "please," as an afterthought.

The girl at the counter yells something towards the kitchen, and I line up again to wait.

Everyone seems to be talking at once, and it's easy to start to lose myself in the buzz of chatter. I don't, however, remembering what I did to the day-dreaming girl. I shoot a mean look at an older boy who seems to be thinking about cutting_ me_, and resume my blank staring at the guy before me in line.

A younger teenager calls my order out, and I raise my hand. He ushers me over, handing me my wrap, and I am left to find a seat.

It is not uncommon in a place as popular as Claudia's for a complete stranger to take a seat next to someone already sitting down. I look for someone who doesn't seem likely to talk, and I am surprised to see the quiet girl, with only a drink, sitting at a table, with an empty chair opposite her.

Hoping it's not a mistake, I join her, pointedly not looking at her face as I open up my wrap, and begin to eat.

"Why did you cut me?" she asks quietly, and I am forced to look up. She doesn't appear angry, just wondering.

"Duh," I say, gesturing at my wrap, "I'm hungry."

"Oh," she replies, and goes back to her drink.

I try to read some sort of emotion, like anger or unhappiness, on her face, but she is back in her dream world. I shrug to myself, wolf down my wrap, say goodbye, and excuse myself, walking off to the bathroom to wash my hands. Bacon is shockingly greasy, and I hate how syrup makes to stick to stuff for the rest of the day.

Checking my watch, I can see that it's time for me to head to the reaping. I'll most likely meet my family if I head towards the house first.

My stomach is full, my worries about the games are small enough to be quashed easily. In less then twenty-four hours, I'll be eighteen, and, hopefully, in the Capitol.

I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

**-x**

**Six down, sixteen to go! Thanks to everyone who's reading this.**

_This update's question_: who do you like the best so far?


	8. Lectic, District Three

**Lectic Riggs**

I can never seem to remember my dreams, though, in the moment, they are vivid and colorful. Of course, I can blame this on my faulty memory, but I choose not to. It makes me feel stupid, and I am anything but.

My intelligence is not put to use that is strictly on the good side of the law, but not in truly bad ways. I steal internet access from the Mayor's house with an encrypted address, so my parents won't have to pay for it. I hotwired a useless old car that we bought from a dealer who gave us a discount, but not the keys.

Perhaps I am in the wrong, but you can't say that everyone else is quite right, either. And I _do_ feel bad, when I go to sleep, or, rather, try to. Insomnia runs in my family, which is a barrel of fun, since it gives me some time to really think about what I do. In depth, in the dark. Oh, hurrah.

That's why I like the morning so much. It finally offers the chance to open my eyes, after a long night of mental torment.

When I wake up, I can already tell that the house is deserted. My parents are incapable of being quiet, not because of their talking, but because my family as a whole consists of a bunch of klutzes. Proving the point, I trip on my way down our tiny, ramshackle staircase, though I manage to stop myself before I plow into the floorboards ten feet below. I suffer a few rug burns, but nothing worse.

I've broken my arm before on that same staircase, so I try to be thankful for the painful pinkish spots that appear on my ashen skin. Instead, I curse the name of our stupid landlord for not paying to get them fixed. I tried to invent something to make me more coordinated, but it turns out that it's easier to rewire a fuse board than it is to keep me from making a fool of myself. Figures.

My cat, Sparky, is sleeping in a furry black ball of kitten at the foot of the accursed stairway. At the sound of my fall, he raises his scornful amber stare to meet mine, and goes back to sleep.

He flicks his tail out to cover the last step, and I successfully make the jump over him.

"You don't know how lucky you are, you little menace," I grumble, but he stands up and weaves through my legs, and I _have_ to pet him. For such an ornery little cat, he's a smart one. That's why I like him.

I'm good natured enough, and I have plenty of friends, but I'd take Sparky over them any day. He may be a freaky little cat, but I know he loves me. _Deeeeep_ down.

"C'mon, Sparks, let's get some breakfast."

He makes a pitiful sound, something between a mewl and a hiss. Then he repeats it, over and over. Anyone but me would think he was angry, but I bend over to pick him up, and he stops.

"Crazy cat," I whisper, as he purrs in my arms.

The little ice box is almost bare, but I rummage through to find a can of cream, and a hunk of cheese.

I drop Sparky, who resumes crying at me, and pry the can open, finally depositing it on the floor. Sparky looks at it disdainfully, flicks my leg with his tail, and laps at the cream, making pitiful noises in between licks.

He does it whenever I feed him, and I am thoroughly disillusioned by now. I yawn, and chop off a few cubes of cheese to munch on.

"It's not like I have it any better," I grumble, chewing the cold piece of cheese and taking another. "At least you've got something you like."

If Sparky had eyebrows, he would probably raise them at me. Instead, he makes do with biting my toe. Hard. I bite my lip, and roll my eyes.

"Look at me. Standing around in my pajamas, talking to an indifferent kitten. Who'd guess I was sixteen? No one. You hear me, Sparky?"

The cream is almost gone, and he scoots the can away, resuming his cries.

"Not this time. I'm getting dressed, and don't think I'm petting you until I have a shirt on!"

I am pretty cold already, in our tiny, drafty kitchen, and I hop upstairs with Sparky trying to weave through my feet. Maybe he just wants me dead so he can eat me. Who knows with a cat like him?

"Watch it!" I cry, nearly falling at the top of the stairwell. "All the cats in the world, and I end up with the craziest!"

Before he can dart in, I slam my door, panting heavily. I remember the reaping, as I open my little dresser, and I pull out my nicest shirt; a threadbare yellow button-down that's seen more years than I can remember. It was my dad's a long time ago, and judging by how frayed it is, it was my grandfather's, too.

Grumbling, I pull it on, along with an equally decrepit pair of slacks that probably were made around the time the Hunger Games were created.

My small comfort is that everybody else wears old clothes, too. For all our proximity to the Capitol, District Three remains on the smaller side, and definitely on the poorer side. At least, that's how it's been since the second rebellion, since one of our citizens, a man named Beetee Levisohn, destroyed an entire arena.

I wish I could have known him. They say he was one of the smartest people District Three ever produced, that anything he didn't know was most likely useless. I bet he didn't trip over his own feet. Probably never fell down the stairs, either.

Though I do have an awful lot of relatives, including an aunt who died in the Hunger Games, there's no way that we're related. It's a good thing, in some ways, because all of the head rebels' relatives were executed. Still, wouldn't that be something.

Sparky has been scratching at my door, and it interrupts my daydream.

"Coming!"

I speed out and scoop him up, balancing him on my shoulder as I devote both hands to keeping my steady down the stairs. A knock sounds at the door, and I check the clock hanging above it; ten forty-seven. I slept in later than I thought.

Distracted, I nearly careen into the visitor, who lets herself in. She is a few inches shorter than my five foot six, dresses in a patched purple dress. Her wildly curly hair is braided back in several rows.

"Oh!" I blurt out. "Screne! Hi!"

"You've got a kitten on your neck," she says slowly, her soft brown eyes boring a hole into Sparky's. He bats at her face with a paw, and she narrowly avoids him.

"Sorry. You've probably startled him," I say, flipping Sparky from my shoulder to my arms, and placing him on the floor. "It's okay, come on in. Are you alright?"

In her slow, quiet way, she follows me in, the hard soles of her shoes making clopping noises, echoing on the peeling lanolin and the bare walls. I know Screne from school. She's in the same year as me, but doesn't talk half as much, and has very few friends.

"I'm looking for my little sister's pet mouse," she says. "We live a few blocks over, and I'm about to give up on him."

"Does he answer to his name?" I ask, though it's a foolish question. Mice are notoriously difficult to train.

"No."

I slump down into our battered computer chair, and boot up the browser. We have so few files, it doesn't take long to get the ancient machine up and running, though the signal from the Justice Building is shaky.

"I'm going to search it, but I can't count on any real results. The net is geared toward the Capitol nowadays, and I don't see much reason for them to be trying to recapture pet mice."

Though I am trying my best to sound knowledgeable, I really don't know what I'll find. I only rigged up the internet so that I could find any sort of news about the reapings, just because paying attention feels like the right thing to do.

You never know when an opportunity could arise, though I'm not sure how. I can't even use the message boards, for fear of the Capitol noticing my somewhat controversial feelings about the games, and tracing my IP address.

"Sorry to be a trouble. I just… need help. And, well, your family is the only one around that can afford internet."

My stomach tightens. What would she think of me if she knew that it was not my family's hard-working nature, but my own questionable skills?

I cough.

"Okay, here we go. Mice often slip under furniture, so it's recommended that you put out some food he likes, and wait. If he got out of the house, there's not much more you can do."

The browser has hit an outdated site with pictures of mice and other small rodents forming a border. No doubt, it belongs to one of the older, more eccentric Capitol citizens.

She sighs heavily.

"Thanks, Lectic. The reaping, and now this… it's been hard on Mica and Drave. I don't know what my family would do if I got picked…" she sighs again, and I get the sense that she's fishing for something.

"Well, Screne, I'll do my best to help out if you're picked. But, really, you shouldn't worry. I mean, District Three is so tiny! What are the odds that you, of all people, will be reaped?

She smiles faintly, and heads for the door.

"Thanks again. It means a lot."

Long after she is gone, I stare at the door. Some of the things that Screne said had made me think. My family probably wouldn't notice much difference if I was picked, apart from the inevitable watching me die. Sparky would get on without me, because he is a devious little beast. Even if dad decided to let him go, abandoning my little kitten into the streets, he would find some new family of suckers to take him in. Maybe even the mayor's family, who would feed him real fish, and treat him like a king.

What was I doing, that I would mean so little to District Three? What skills did I really have? To comfort myself, I sat down to think.

I'm the smartest person I know of. There's one, at least. But I'm even screwing that up, what with my less than legal activities. Some comfort that is.

When I do stand up, it's only to sigh and remove Sparky from my knee. He mewls pitifully, but I'm too absorbed in my own ineptitude to do anything more than pet him.

_You'll be worth even less if you're dead_, a voice in my head whispers. And I remember that today, if I'm not at the square by eleven thirty, the Peacekeepers will come around. I'll be executed, if I don't get going.

It's true, though. If I'm dead, I won't even be able to save the life of at least one hypothetical person from District Three.

I think, I _think _I'm going to volunteer. And if I win, then, well, as unlikely as it is, I'll be redeemed. If I don't, then District Three will be spared the rest of my life. If none of us are picked, then so much the better. When you're a teenager, I guess it's easy to overreact and blow a little depression out of proportion.

But I'm not thinking about that. Because I know that if I think, I'll convince myself that I'm making a stupid choice, and I won't do it. In the moment, though, I realize just how much I have to. I do! I really, really, do...

**-x**

**Poor guy. Hormones, and all that. :P**

**Love you guys!**

This update's question: Describe the Hunger Games themselves in five words or less. (Back to school, people! :P)


	9. Dylan, District Four

**Dylan Ahava**

I can't remember the last time I felt so tired. Considering my schedule, it must not have been so long ago. But past events are dull, and the moment is always sharper. I am not supposed to feel exhaustion, not any more. Somehow, I always do, and each time it is worse.

Long before I wake up, I can feel myself stirring, and I know that it is nearly criminal to stay in bed for as long as I have. There is work to be done elsewhere, as there always is. I have obligations everywhere, and I will almost welcome the relative freedom offered by the arena.

Of course, I will be volunteering. I am eighteen, theoretically at my prime. I have motive enough. My family is poor as dirt, and my father has retired suddenly, for no given reason. Ever since I was born, I knew the day would come. As the first and only child, it's pretty much my purpose. That's what happens in District Four. Either someone in your family wins, or you live in poverty.

My parents chose the last one. Mom's family was sickly and poor as dirt, so she didn't have much of a chance to get good enough to learn. Dad wimped out when he was eighteen, and let one of his friends volunteer instead. To hear him talk, it was some noble sacrifice. But the guy died, so it's hard to see it that way.

Killing isn't noble, but it's how life works. A necessity, like working, sleeping, and fishing. It seems like that's all I do anymore.

When I know I can't stay in bed any longer, I kick off my sheets, and pull on a cleanish shirt from my bedside table. My parents are definitely up, and I hope that there won't be hell to pay for my own indulgence.

Almost immediately after I leave my room, my dad notices me up. He puts his hand over his face, and takes a deep breath.

"Do you know what time it is?" He snaps, as I try to unnoticeably walk past him.

I feel my muscles tense up, and turn around slowly to face him.

"Look, I slept in. Call the Peacekeepers! I'm a danger to myself and others!"

Though I'm at least six feet tall, my dad still has an inch or so on me, and he effectively blocks my path. We're both well-muscled guys, but, again, there's no question that he's bigger.

"Don't you talk back to me," he growls, and I hold my hands in the air, palms flat towards him.

"Okay, okay, I've got it," I say, restraining myself from rolling my eyes at him, an attempting to pass him to the kitchen.

He makes a huffing noise, but moves to the side. I slide by, careful not to brush him, and lope into the kitchen. Mom is expertly gutting a fish, and, upon seeing me, she sets down her tools.

"Dylan, honey, hasn't your father told you to get up earlier? It's for your own good."

I snort under my breath, and she sighs.

"Trafford, come on back. You two need to talk this out," she calls, and my jaw tightens. I really don't hate my father, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't hate me, but we haven't gotten on very well since I turned thirteen.

He doesn't reply, and she sighs again.

"What's for breakfast?" I ask, hoping to change the subject.

"I've made you up some toast and cod, but you'll have to eat it on your way to work. It's nearly eight thirty!"

I curse under my breath, grabbing a brown paper sack from the kitchen counter, and dashing for the door.

"Be back by eleven!" she yells after me.

Shaking my head as if to clear it, I vault out the door. It's a lucky thing I thought to sleep in my work trousers, because there's no time to change clothes. I can't be late to the pier, or Scilla will have my head.

In the part of District Four that we live in, I stick out like a sore thumb. The majority of the population has rich brown skin, dark eyes, and pin-straight black hair. My sun-bleached hair and blue-green eyes make me stick out like a sore thumb, though appearance is really the least of my worries.

The unpaved streets try to slow me down, but I have wide District Four feet, which defy sinking into the deep sand. We live close to the dock, but I'm thoroughly out of breath by the time I can see Scilla's annoyed expression.

"You're late," she hisses, and half drags my down to the end of the dock.

Scilla isn't much older than me, but our appearances are entirely different. Her black hair is long, straight, and somehow always seems to be hydrated. I would call her pretty. But definitely out of my league, not that I'd try. She could have been a shoo-in for the Hunger Games, but she loves her work.

Sometimes, I think she just enjoys bossing me around.

I try halfheartedly to open up my breakfast, but she glares at me, forcing me to drop it with her angry gaze.

"Do you know how hard it is to run a business like this? You have to be on time very day, sometimes early. You have to be out here the second the shrimp are shoaling, on a moment's notice! And even then, even if your employees are reliable enough to get up on time, there's still the low pay, long hours, and _back-breaking work_!"

She stops to take a breath, and I contemplate what a terrible motivational speaker she would be.

"But it's what you have to do, to live. So get the heck out there, and string up those nets before I string _you_ up!"

It's amazing how terrifying such a small person can be, who I could probably break in half if I wanted to. She's nearly a foot shorter than me, and wiry, like a cat. Though she is only about twenty, her face has tiny, threadlike lines where she frowns.

Instead of arguing with her, I snap a nod, pick up my breakfast, and make a break for the end of the slick, sandy dock.

One of the things I love about shrimping is how easy it is. Shrimp are everywhere, and if you can get a net behind the current, it's the simplest thing in the world to catch them. Though you get smaller shrimp than are out at sea, it costs less and is much less dangerous to use a very long pier.

When I've finished tying the third net, I stop to eat my toast. Lying on the gritty dock has let a bit of sand in, but I'm terribly hungry. I inhale breakfast, and go to finish my last net. The tight weaving is clear, strong plastic, and seems almost as light as air, save for the lead weights hanging from the end of every other strand.

Methodically, I heave each section into the water, and tie the necessary knots to secure it to the railing. Almost immediately, I see the first glass-shrimp float into it, and I smile. Netting is hard work, but there is no way Scilla can complain about how well I can do it.

Almost exactly as I finish the thought, she stalks down my row of nets, grudgingly admiring them.

"Let me tell you, Dylan," she growls, walking back to me, "if you weren't so freaking good at this, I'd have fired you ten times over."

I indulge myself with a smile of pride.

"Watch yourself. Be late again, and I still might."

She gives me a glare, and walks away, but as soon as she has her back turned, I am absolutely certain she smiles. Scilla really isn't that bad, as bosses go. There are many truly bad people in the world, but I am confident that she isn't one of them. Just a pain in the butt.

"Hey, Scilla!" I call after her, without thinking. "How about an early lunch at Casa?"

Instead of yelling at me, she turns around, giving me a small smile.

"Strictly professional, of course," I add.

"In your dreams, Dylan. But Casa's pretty good. Fine. Let's have lunch. _After_ you bring in a few nets."

I shake my head ruefully, though I never meant anything else. You could probably say that Scilla's the closest thing I have to a friend, and I've just been feeling lonely, lately. Shrimping is a darn solitary occupation, and since I graduated, I've barely seen anything of my friends from school. Training isn't an option for meeting people, since I graduated that, too. Once you've turned eighteen, you're on your own.

Still in my own world, I pull in the nets, which yield a moderate catch, and re-string them, depositing the shrimp in our ice bin, filling it to the quarter-way mark.

Scilla checks the results, nodding in satisfaction at the catch.

"One more should do it," she comments, and I miss the usual edge to her voice.

By ten, I've finished the second load, and she lets me know that I'm done for the day. I walk to the front of the dock, tossing my crumpled breakfast bag into a recycling bin.

She stands with her arms tensed by her sides, and we begin the seven-block walk to Casa, a fish fry restaurant owned by an elderly couple who live near my house. It's a homey sort of place, always smelling salty and rich, where the people tend to be pleasant and the prices tend to be low.

It's not quite at it's fullest, so we sit at a four-person table, completely okay not to be too close to each other. An older man in an apron announces to us what they have, and we both take the crab fry.

"I suppose neither of us want to see shrimp again for a while," I comment, and she snorts.

"Runty little lobsters, that's what they are," she adds, which elicits a smile from me. "What're your plans for the reaping? Did they do the sign-up the same way, what with the Quarter Quell?"

"Nah," I say, tearing a napkin into strips and tying knots into it, "There's no way to predict how many'll be picked, though they're guessing pretty high, considering the district's size. It's pretty much a free-for-all."

She sets down her plastic cup of water, and looks me straight in the eye.

"You planning on volunteering?"

I shrug, taking a long drink from my own cup before I answer.

"I guess so. Can't stay in District Four forever, y'know?"

Her face crinkles up, but I can't read what she's thinking. I'm terrible at telling what girls think, and Scilla is even more difficult than most.

"You know how hard you'd be to replace?" she asks, agitated. "Do you know just how few people have the patience to shrimp correctly?"

I blink at her, and raise an eyebrow.

"So, I guess I'll just have to come back," I say, trying to look her in the eye. "Do you really have that little faith in me?"

"Damn it," she mutters, "you can't even get to work on time!"

The arrival of our food stops my reply, and I jam a whole claw into my mouth, breaking it open with my teeth. She does the same, and crunching replaces our conversation.

"I could." I swallow my mouthful, spitting the shell into my hand, and placing it in the bowl offered for that purpose.

She doesn't look convinced.

"Do you know how many more competitors will be in that arena with you, this year? Real competition, not just scared little boys who can't use a net and have conniptions when you wave a sword at them. How can you say that you'll survive, so confidently?"

"Aww, come on, you're hurting my ego," I complain. "Wouldn't you enter, if you had the chance again?"

"No!" she says, a bit too loudly, and a couple behind us gives me a dirty look.

I munch another crab leg, and she glares daggers at me. To think, I had thought Scilla _hated _me.

"And why not?" I counter. "Do you really want to be shrimping for the rest of your life?"

"I'd rather live a boring life than have my throat cut!" she growls, and her dark eyes bore into mine.

"Who says I'm going to die?" I snap. "This is my last chance!"

"To go to your grave!" she shouts, and stands up, nearly knocking over her chair. "Why the hell is this so important to you?"

Though I can't exactly explain it, I can feel myself grow angry at her. I stand up as well.

"Because we all die sooner or later, and this is what I live for! I'd rather go out living than just wither away!"

Her brown skin takes on a pinkish tint, and she looks like she wants to say something, but can't. Then, she pushes back her chair to storm out, leaving me to foot the bill and leave as well.

Stalking home in a huff, I can't help but wonder exactly what I'm living for.

Am I a closet murderer, or just a deluded brat? I'm too angry to think. Too upset to speak.

_This just isn't fair_.

**-x**

**Hi there. My, but you look familiar! Sorry for being away for so long, but I was in extended post-Mockingjay mourning.**

**Thanks for staying with me!**

_This update's question: _How do you pronounce 'Scilla' in your head?


	10. Gull, District Four

**Gull Trilby**

You probably wouldn't find me particularly impressive, at first glance. If you honestly took the time to look again, you would be more mystified at the fact that you did it than you would be by any aspect of my appearance.

That's because I'm totally, mind-blowingly normal. It's not even the sort of thing that I can rant about, because there are so many worse problems. My family doesn't starve to death in a windblown little shack on the beach, or live it up in Victor's Village. My dad is a low-level accountant for a fishing distribution company, and my mom works in PR for a former victor, Sale Turbince. It's pretty sad when the most interesting things a person can list about himself involve his parents.

Like most middle-class sixteens, I have a part-time job. The work is dull, the benefits are nonexistent, and the pay is low-level at best. I spend ten hours a week guarding a private dock in the fancier part of town. Fun.

Though schooling formally ends at eighteen, a large portion of the school funnels out at fifteen to work and care for the people back at home. I made the choice to stay, though I'm beginning to regret it. After fifteen, school is mostly training. I've never been particularly good at it, and a few extra hours a day is unlikely to change that.

I might be comforted if the point of view was my own, but I lose even that shred of individuality in the crowd of people who agree with my. The people around me somehow seem to manipulate me into my views, even though I choose to maintain that my ideas are my own.

Yeah, it doesn't make any sense to me, either. But it's sorta comforting.

When you're normal, I suppose there are a few perks. Sleeping in, for one, because you aren't missed. My parents are at work already, and I can't think of what day it is, negating the possibility of my 'having something to do.'

I let my eyes slit open, and take a look at the clock. The big hand is nearing the eleven, but the hour hand is hovering just under the ten. I check my memo sheet next to it, and curse under my breath.

Scrawled in marker on it's crude yellow paper. _Reaping day_. _Kenn and Tahoe 10:00_.

Far from the leisurely pace I had planned, I find myself bolting for the door. The guys and I have been planning to meet at the pool on reaping day for weeks, nearly a month. They'd just _love _it if I bailed on them. Tahoe's been working up the courage to talk to Rafta Delmar for almost a year, and girls' synchronized swimming team lets out at ten.

Somehow, he's gotten the idea into his head that reaping day will give him something to talk to her about. But the guy has even less confidence than I do, and he's definitely chickening out if I don't show. Well, maybe not. But I like to feel important, okay?

I double back to franticly switch out of my pajamas, but I make it out the door with two minutes to spare. My feet beat the wooden walkways, and I cut between two bait shops, hoping that I'll make it on time.

The pool is made of cement, but the resemblance to the ancient swimming-pools used in North America ends there. It is fed by the ocean, through a filter fine enough to catch debris from the ocean, but wide enough to let a considerable amount of water through. It's one among many, considering how much the district is divided- by class, by how the fish shoal, even somewhat by race- but it's a nice one, as pools go. Especially when it's full of swim-team girls.

By the time I reach it, I'm out of breath, though I do a lot of running during training. It takes a lot to wear me out, and I have definitely met that criteria.

Kenn is by the gate, waving to me, and gripping Tahoe by the lower arm.

"Hey, Gull! We thought you weren't going to show!" he calls, as soon as I am within earshot.

"Nah, I slept in, but I wouldn't miss this for a house in Victor's Village," I reply breathlessly.

"He just knew I was going to blow it," Tahoe sulks, trying to pull out of Kenn's grip, with no success. Kenn's a pretty big guy, after all.

Good naturedly, I punch his arm.

"C'mon, man, you can do it."

Cutting any further communication off, a buzzer sounds, and the quiet splashing from the pool is replaced with talking, giggling, and the light slap of wet feet on concrete. Tahoe looks up, his black hair flipping out of his eyes for once, and I follow their path. Rafta, of course. No one else could cause that sappy grin.

Kenn notices as well, and shoulders the gate open, dragging Tahoe after him. I rush to keep up, though Tahoe fights against every tug.

"I can't do this!" he mutters, dragging his bare heels on the rough concrete. "Why did I come here?"

His murky green eyes flicker wildly, searching desperately for some avenue of escape, but finding none.

I bark a short laugh. "Here she comes!"

Abruptly, Kenn lets go of Tahoe's arm, and pushes him in the general direction of the rather pretty girl exiting the pool alone. Tahoe is propelled a few feet, and stumbles up to her. I high five Kenn and we lean against a post, waiting for the action to start.

To my dismay, I find the enclosure to be too loud to hear over, but I watch the scene nonetheless, trying to keep cool. Tahoe bites his lip and shifts from leg to leg, but he manages out a 'hello'. Rafta laughs into her hand, and replies, though I can't see her very well.

Tahoe keeps a good amount of control over himself, probably making a joke, because she laughs even more. Then she gestures at the two of us, and says something that makes my friend's ears heat up. He laughs nervously, but shoots us a glare over his shoulder. We smile innocently, which flusters him even more.

"This is boring," Kenn mutters to me, and I nod almost imperceptibly. "I'm heading over to the tables. Wanna come?"

I smirk.

"Are you sure you don't need me to drag you there?" I ask, my voice much louder than necessary. "I know how you are around girls..."

As I over-exaggeratedly drag him to one of the limestone picnic tables, we draw a small amount of laughter from the already full tables around us, and another glare from Tahoe.

Still by the pool, Rafta seems amused by us, going to far as to point to our picnic table, laughing again. I can see why Tahoe likes her. She's pretty, as girls go, and she apparently doesn't mind a moderate amount of kidding.

Tahoe asks her something, and she smiles. I elbow Kenn, who is making small talk about the reaping with the next picnic table over, and he excuses himself.

"I think he's almost done," I hiss, feeling strangely alone in such a crowded place.

"You're right. Better cut out before he kills us."

We attempt a nonchalant exit, but of course, we attract even more attention than we would carrying a half-ton tuna. Once we pass the gates, I break into a run, and Kenn follows me for about a block, laughing.

"Do you think we got away?" he asks, slumping against the wall of a bakery.

"I dunno, but I gotta go now. I'll see you two at the reaping."

He nods acknowledgement, and I head home. Our escapades are something I'm used to- we always end up making fools of ourselves in public places. Most boys do. But I don't like the lonely feeling, seeing Tahoe and Kenn enjoy what I can't seem to.

It's totally moronic, but I can't help but feel that I'm losing ground in a race that I barely even realized I was in.

The house is as I left it, and I let myself in, after shooing away the bony grey cat that frequents our doorstep. I grab a bag of apples, and munch on one, just thinking. I'm hungrier than I thought, and I finish another before I remember that I ought to dress up for the reaping.

Unlike other years, the district has not put a structure in place. We haven't had time, quite frankly. You're supposed to only be eligible if you're in school, but that rarely stops kids from volunteering.

For the first time, as I'm changing into a worn, green dress shirt, I actually consider volunteering. Just because I can. But that's stupid.

Training has never been my forte, and I enjoy my little comforts. A clean bed, a warm meal, a swim in the ocean. I like it when my dark brown hair is orderly, and when my callused skin is clean.

Maybe, though, maybe if I entered, I could win.

I know the strategy this year- everyone's talking about it. Volunteer for the strongest, leave the least proficient as easy competition. It makes sense. There will be a higher concentration of careers than ever before, that's for certain.

Maybe, if I won, it would do something about the pain I get when I think about just how small I really am. Just how insignificant. Teenager from District Four, number ten thousand seventy-six.

Maybe I could be a victor. I could be somebody else, anybody other than the idiot upstaged by _better_ idiots.

Or maybe I could die. I could have my throat slit, my body impaled, my flesh eaten away by tongues of flame. I could suffer a thousand agonies for my presumption.

That's why it's better that I don't. I will stay unimpressive, live out the sixty year life expectancy, and wither away in the comfort of my own home. Perhaps I'll marry an equally unimpressive girl, and have two-point-nine children, as is the norm.

Any life is better than no life at all, right?

I straighten my collar, and walk out the front door, one minute closer to death.

**-x**

**A thousand apologies for my posting delays. I was, and remain to be, in the hospital, and my typing skills are not quite up to par. Please excuse minor typos, though I did my best to catch them all.**

_This update's question_- Burn to death or freeze to death?


	11. Rippel, District Four

**Rippel Clark**

I can't see. And it's annoying. My arm extends from my warm haven under the covers, and I grope around on my creaky bedside table. They're not there. The roughly hewn surface is bare.

Already disgruntled, I tumble out of bed, landing painfully on my elbow. I search the floor. Not there either, though I encounter something that I'm definitely glad I can't see. It squishes.

"Eddie! You are _so_ dead!" I cry, scrambling from my hands and knees, knocking into my little sister Corent's vacant bed.

Laughter from the adjacent room confirms my suspicions. Eddie. Now if I could only find the doorknob. Instead, I trip over the tiny bed Corent has set up for her seagrass dollies. It's made out of an old turtle shell lined with grass mats, but it still hurts like anything colliding with my shin.

Barely, I can make out the blurry shape and color of the door. I barrel towards it, though I misjudge the distance and smack my forehead. The pain doesn't stop me, and I feel around until I open the door, dashing down the hall to the boys' room.

At their door, I repeat the process, searching for the handle and wrenching it open.

I must look an awful sight, because the movement I can see through the haze that is my vision stops, along with the laughing.

"I am giving you," I growl, "_Three seconds _to return my glasses. And then I kill you!"

Slowly, I extend my hand, and with a flurry of movement, I feel their weight in my hand as Eddie speeds past me, running for the kitchen. He knows dad won't let me murder him in front of Corent and Tied.

For a few seconds, I just breathe, feeling the pain I have been ignoring rush back to me. I clean off the lenses to my glasses, and slip them on.

My vision goes clear, and I sigh in relief. Better. I am in the room that Tied and Eddie share, just one thin wall away from my own. There's no clock, but I can guess by the sun in the window that it's before ten.

There is a somewhat foggy, flawed mirror hanging on the wall. I take in the blood leaking from my nose, and the bruise forming on my arm. My wire-rimmed, rectangular glasses

Perfect. Just perfect. The most important day of my life is off to a _brilliant _start.

I mop up my nose with the sleeve of my nightgown and traipse out to the kitchen, where Tied and Corent are gnawing on fried shrimp, and Eddie is, typically, whining at dad.

"But daaaaad..." he moans, barely noticing my entrance.

"No buts!" dad barks. "You will be eligible for the reaping next year, and you will eat your shrimp raw!"

He notices me, and turns around. The lines on his forehead have deepened, but he still smiles.

"Rippel. You've decided to join us?" he asks, trying to be stern, but not succeeding. "Talk to your brother. He won't eat his shrimp."

I shoot an icy glare at Eddie, who pokes at his shrimp with a fork and doesn't look at me. Corent pokes Tied with a piece of shrimp, and dad moves to chide her. I lean towards Eddie, mouthing 'd-e-a-d', and he makes a face at me.

"Oh, come on Eddie. Don't you want to grow up big and strong like me?" I say, grabbing a raw shrimp from the plate in the center of the table and downing it. "You know, fried shrimp lose a lot of important proteins when you cook 'em."

He sticks out his tongue, and pushes the plate away. I heave a sigh, and turn to dad.

"So, dad, did you hear what was going on this morning?" I ask, abandoning Eddie's little shrimp-defiance issues.

"I think they may have heard it in District Eleven," he replies, distracted by Tied's decision to throw his shrimp at Corent in retaliation.

I snort derisively, but Eddie grabs the opportunity to annoy me further.

"You wouldn't think one person would be able to be so loud. Especially 'cause she's got such a tiny chest."

He probably doesn't realize just how sensitive a nerve he's pushing, but I kick him anyway. Hard.

"Maybe if you weren't such a little jerk, you could find some friends and leave me alone," I mutter.

"Daaad..." he whines, "Rippel kicked me! You said she's not supposed to do that, remember?"

Before dad can reply, I cut in.

"Oh, come on! It's not like I hurt you or anything! I've been training since I was younger than you, I think I could hurt you if I wanted to!"

Dad looks annoyed at the distraction from feeding my twin siblings.

"Both of you, calm down. Rippel, you'll need to do your exercises after breakfast, and if you have enough time to argue with your brother, I'd call you done. I won't have you volunteering unprepared."

Eddie smirks at me, and I consider kicking him again.

"Yes, dad," I say quietly, taking my dishes to the sink and walking over to the small living room, where my list is taped to the wall.

From the kitchen, I can hear dad chiding Eddie, as well. But we all know that I'm the one who's supposed to volunteer and win and get us out of here, not him. It's my job to make sure Eddie and Tied and Corent don't ever have to be in the games, and I really don't mind. I'm firstborn. It's just the way it is.

I'm already lost in thought as I begin my two hundred pushups, as always. I don't have to focus on them any more, after all the years I've done them. Idly, I consider how little I ate this morning, and how it will affect my performance.

There's no real way to tell, since all I'm paying attention to is the rhythmic palpitation of my heart, and whatever wisp of thought happens to occupy my mind.

Right now, I'm thinking about the quell. Just sort of wondering how many tributes District Four is going to have. Surely, at least three. We're among the bigger districts, but we're also both poor enough and well-trained enough to take out loads of tessarae.

Yeah, three. At least. The Career districts always enter as many times as possible, because, if you're picked and you're not ready, you can be certain that someone will volunteer for you. Except for this year, because anybody with half of a brain is going to volunteer just for the strongest. Who wants to fight _those_ people?

I feel a bit sore, and I realize that I've totally lost count of my exercises. Life catches up, and my slim arms collapse under my weight. I curse. No matter how hard I try, I never seem to bulk up, just get smaller all over. It's irritating.

Dad enters the room, seeing me collapsed on the floor.

"I think you're done, honey," he says, helping me up. "Do you feel ready?"

There is genuine concern in his eyes, but I already know the answer. I've been thinking about it for a long time.

"Ready as I'll ever be, dad," I reply, carefully meeting his eyes.

He nods, squeezing my lower arm and giving me a little smile.

"Then go get ready, Rippel. You'll knock 'em dead."

_Yeah_, I think to myself, _I will_. _And you won't have to worry any more_. I grin back and walk back to my room, not really thinking about anything. Well, of course I am. I'm just wondering how life would be different if my mom had stayed, and whether I would have trained at all. She had never much liked the idea.

I wonder where she is. Whether she is still alive. If she is, then she'll be watching the reapings today. And she'll recognize me, and she'll know me when I win. And I _will_ win. For Eddie, Corent, Tied, and my dad. Not for her. For my family.

My entire frame feels tense, and I wonder if I'm ready. Of course I'm ready. I'm at the top of my class, the tope of my game. I may not look like much, but that's not for lack of trying.

The green dress I select hangs off my wiry frame, obviously. Because the universe simply doesn't want me to look like anything other than a scared little Career in training at the reaping. I cinch the waistband tighter, which doesn't help very much, and try feebly to coax my hair into something resembling a style.

It doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work. I brush it a few more times, just to see if the brown strands will be anything but limp (they won't), and I try to bend my glasses back into a reasonable shape, which is much more successful.

"Rippel!" dad calls from the front door. "Are you ready?"

"Here I come!" I yell back, dashing out the door. No matter what, I am ready. I am Rippel Clark, Career.

I am going to knock them dead.

**-x**

**Apologies for just how long this took to write. I've been in and out of the hospital for the last two months, a cycle which I hope to break.**

_This update's question_: Who is your favorite character for The Hunger Games trilogy?


	12. Iezsa, District Five

**Iezsa Monet**

I'm scared of a lot of things, not the least of which is the reaping. But on the top, the fear that I would have to place highest of all on my list, is bugs. Even the word makes me want to curl up into a little hole and die.

My birthday was just a few weeks ago. I've survived for a little over fifteen years of this miserable, occasionally quite cruel, existence. I'm pretty much sick of it. School is advanced math, where I try not to be noticed too much, and just keep my head down. The weekends are working as a cleaning girl for our last victor- a middle aged man named Jerrison Dune who can't be bothered to pick up after himself, and who depends largely on me to keep his humongous house in a state somewhere approaching 'livable'.

Now, my life may be hideously uneventful, but I would not trade with him for all his money, or his house. The man is a wreck. He collects everything, from his morning paper to the remnants of his food, and it has to be pried from his hands, or removed while he sleeps. And even then, he hates me for taking his precious garbage, but knows that without my assistance, all the junk would suffocate him.

No, suicide would be a better option than living in squalor with only cockroaches and a quiet girl for company. Which is why I am scared of the reaping. It offers two awful choices. I could die, or I could be like him. Best not to be picked at all. I just wish I could prevent it. But I can't.

It feels like something is crawling on my face, and I wake up in a panic. When I slap at my forehead, though, it's just my hair. Though danger is averted, every muscle in my body is tense, and I am quivering, ready to bolt at a second's notice.

When nothing happens, I brush the yellow-brown strands from my eyes, squinting in the sunlight that filters in through my small, but strategically placed window.

I dive out of bed, needing to use my manic energy for something, and hurry out into the kitchen.

My mom is chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and I hop-step over to see what she's making.

"What's got you so excited, Izzy?" she asks, looking up from her deftly cubed potatoes and carrots.

"Just nervous," I say, adjusting my weight from one foot to the other. "About today, you know?"

She smiles calmly at me.

"You've got no reason to worry. Five is a small district. Who knows? We may not even have a tribute this year!"

I muster up a half-smile to make her feel better.

"What's for breakfast?" I ask, looking at the bowl she is filling with her vegetables, wondering what will come of it.

"Oh, not this. I'm making us a celebratory stew for lunch! There's cheese in the icebox, and I think we have some bread in the pantry."

I assemble a cold cheese sandwich, and watch her work. My mother is a masterful cook, and a very delicate woman. I get most of my looks from her. You wouldn't expect the greying, fine-featured woman in the kitchen who is humming to herself to be able to skin and gut any animal you place in front of her.

She delights in defying that stereotype.

Unfortunately, while, for most, Saturday is an off-day, it happens to be my opportunity to attempt to coax an emotionally scarred recluse to give up his leftovers.

"I'm headed to Jerry's house, mom. He'll be a wreck today, so don't expect me back until a little before the reaping."

She nods, dancing around the kitchen. My mom is even happier than normal. Her optimism always worries me, and today is no different. When she's happy, the worst things happen.

I switch into my good blouse and trousers, and trudge off to the mostly-vacant Victor's Village. There aren't that many people on the street, and I don't see anyone I know. All the families seem to be savoring what could be their last chance to be together indoors.

When I reach Jerrison's fortress-like home, I knock smartly on the whitewashed door. It takes him a few seconds to answer, and I can tell he's checking the peephole, making sure it's me.

The door swings open, and I walk from the mid-morning sun into the indoor twilight.

"Miss Monet," he greets me, as he always does.

"Jerry," I say reproachfully "It's worse if you leave the lights off."

I flick the switch next to the door, and in the sudden light, I can see Jerry standing to the other side of the door. His dark brown hair is going grey at the sides, and his face is haggard, and he clearly hasn't shaved since last Sunday. He is in his nightclothes, a threadbare cotton shirt and baggy pants of the same material.

"It's reaping day," he says hoarsely, closing the door and bolting it.

"I know," I reply, looking the house over for what has changed since I last visited. "You'll need to clean yourself up. Don't worry, I won't throw anything away while you dress."

He lopes up the stairs, presumably to the only room he won't let me touch, and I survey the sitting room. He's piled the week's papers by the couch, and there are several plates of food on the coffee table he eats on. None of them look less than two days old. The television has been covered by a sheet, which is collecting dust. I heave a sigh. The upcoming reaping is not doing him any good.

When he comes back down, his face mostly shaved, his hair brushed, and in a clean white shirt and slacks, I have almost finished washing his dishes and disposing of their decaying contents.

"What are you doing?" he yelps, running up behind me as I scrape what was once a salad into the trash bin. "You said you wouldn't throw anything away!"

"Jerry, this is dangerous to keep in your living room. Diseases grow in rotting food. You don't want to die."

He bites his lip as I finish washing off the plates, glasses, and cutlery, drying them and putting them away in the proper shelves and drawers. I feel more self-conscious than usual as he watches me.

"Do you have anything to do?" I finally ask, as I wipe down his cluttered countertops, restacking the papers into orderly piles, tossing mushy fruit into the wastebasket. He winces with each rotten apple.

"No, this is what I always do on Saturdays."

"And what is that?" I demand, a little irritated.

"Make sure you don't mess up," he says quietly.

If I was a more easily angered person, I might be annoyed. But all I feel for Jerry is pity, for what the world has made him do, and eventually turned him into. He was the second person to win after the Great Rebellion, just seventeen at the time. Twenty-three years ago.

"Are you feeling okay, about the reaping?" I ask, though I know he isn't.

"I'll manage, Miss Monet," he replies.

"You know, we might not even have a tribute this year." I try to be reassuring, but it probably doesn't work. I don't believe it myself.

"We will. We always do."

"Cheer up, you never know how things will go," I say, rifling through a pile of unread mail. "Do you need these?"

I hold them up, and I see the struggle in his face. As I go to throw them out, he stops me.

"Don't! I'll… get to them."

"Here," I say, handing him the pile. "Let's go through them, and you can pick the ones you want to keep for later."

The biggest part of my job, aside from the obvious task of cleaning up after him, is reaching compromises on what he can keep. Jerry would never let go of anything if I didn't push him so hard.

He decides that he can't live without a flyer asking for donations to a lab developing better nightglasses, a letter from a store thanking him for his business, and an advertisement asking him to renew his subscription to the news. He reluctantly hands me the rest, and looks away as I toss them into the trash. As I do, though, a fly zips from what I must assume to be a feast of rotten fruit, and lands on my arm.

I freeze.

"Jerry…" I whisper, though I can't make myself move. "Jerry, help!"

He hurls the newspaper flyer with precision; it smacks the fly off my quivering arm, barely grazing my skin. I swallow the lump in my throat, and go to wash my hands off while he retrieves the ad.

"Thanks," I say, wiping down the mostly-clean countertop as he watches.

Though many parts of Jerry have been dulled or horribly disfigured, he still has amazing aim. With almost anything. And if you look at him, long enough, you can almost imagine him winning the games. But then, you see the fear of death, of change, in his eyes. And you see the wrinkles that have formed between his brows.

He's not a man you can be afraid of. And I have heard tell that he is a good mentor, who kept the girl last year alive to the final two. He was smart enough to have coached her on various odd types of weapons, so, in the primitive shopping-mall arena, she had no trouble making use of a wide-buckled belt as a sort of swinging club.

I also know him to be a kind man, one who probably wouldn't hurt a fly, if I didn't require it.

We both have our fears. Neither of them are very rational. Though I am not yet as damaged as he is, I am younger. Give me time.

When I finish the counter, I work on the dining table, which, though mostly unused, had heaped itself with quite the variety of items over my week of absence. It takes a while, but I manage to reduce it to a little pile in the center.

"Are we done, Miss Monet?" he asks, looking up from the pile of knickknacks that he managed to secure for himself.

"I think so. Would you like me to come back tomorrow, while you're away? I'll only do the dusting, and clean out the carpet in the living room-"

He stops me, shaking his head.

"It's fine. We can resume when I come back. Your payment?"

I notice that it is, in fact nearly time for the reaping. The dusty clock above the icebox reads 11:20.

"Yes, Jerry, if you please."

He hands me a few coins, and I smile at him.

"It's going to be okay," I say, and I leave, unlatching the door and walking out into the sunlight.

I don't know, however, if I'm reassuring him, or myself.

**-x**

**Sorry for neglecting this for so long. As I move through my mental list of characters it takes longer and longer to develop them. I've decided to work on this story as my NaNoWriMo project- because I figure having a real deadline will make me work harder on it.**

**Thanks are due to everyone who reads, especially those who let me know what they think.**

_This update's question_: Will you be doing NaNoWriMo?


	13. Rachel, District Six

**Rachel Goldberg**

There's only one rule in my house. You listen to me. I may be just fourteen, but I'm more than smarter than my parents and my brother. I'm not annoying, or spoiled. I'm just right, and that's how it works.

I have way more friends than Isaiah, which really just functions as proof of my superiority. He's selfish old jerk, so it goes without saying. And my parents are too tired from their jobs to object to anything I want to do. So I might as well take advantage of it. I'm only going to be young once, and I intend to enjoy it.

My phone is ringing, and it's what wakes me up. I have a yellowed old plastic phone on my bedside table, which happens to be the only phone in the house.

I'm up in a second, yanking the handset off.

"Rachel," I say, keeping my voice as free from grogginess as I can.

"Hey, it's Becka! What's up?"

"Couldn't you have called later?" I gripe, still trying to wake up.

"Gosh, Rach," she says, "Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Someone didn't wake up _at all_."

She laughs, which really annoys me. Becka's probably my best friend at the moment, but she is dangerously close to losing that status.

"Fine, Becka. I can't talk now. I'll meet you at the square an hour or so before the stupid thing starts. We can talk _then_, if there was any point to this call in the first place."

I get a good amount of satisfaction by slamming the handset down and hanging up. It is way too early for me to be awake.

Lurching out of bed, I sort of flounder around for a moment, trying to find my bearings. I carefully make my way to the closet, where I quickly change out of my night dress and into a fuzzy purple one.

The stupid reaping is today, so I have to dress up.

I don't personally see any point in going. Why bother? It's not like District Six has any chance of winning, unless, of course, it's me in there. But I'm happy enough at home. Maybe if Isaiah could get himself reaped, I'd be even happier.

He'd volunteer for me, after all, if I was picked. Mom and dad would kill him if he didn't. They like me more, I think.

That's probably him I can hear in the dining room. Sitting and reading, waiting for someone to make breakfast. He's going to be some freakish type of science-y person.

"Is-aiiii-ahhh," I whine, walking out of my room. "I'm hungry-y-y."

"Then go get yourself something," he mutters, turning a page of his book without looking up.

"_Mom_ would make me something," I say, pouting at him.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not mom."

"If I starve, you're going to get in trouble."

I sit down at the rickety table, across from him. He looks up, finally, annoyed.

"Maybe I wouldn't mind all that much," he grumbles.

So I have to get up, and walk all the way to the kitchen, and grab a stupid little apple. It isn't even what I wanted.

"You suck," I tell him as I sit down.

He just rolls his eyes, like the biggest jerk ever. Which he is. We're quiet for a bit, and I really hate that. The house is old, and there are a load of things my parents really need to fix. It makes groaning noises, in the walls and the floor, which just scream 'creepy'.

"So where're mom and dad?" I ask over a mouthful of apple.

"Work," he says shortly, clearly more interested in his laboratory-research-book-thingie than in me.

That bugs me. My parents are medical researchers, specifically something about vaccines and whatnot that don't involve needles. Of course, I don't understand it. But Isaiah does, apparently, which is kind of stupid in my opinion.

All my plans center on not needing to work. Because I'm going to be rich. I don't care how. Maybe I'll marry a retired peacekeeper, or something. Or one of the mayor's sons. Or… I dunno. The games are out of the question, because Isaiah or one of my friends will volunteer for me. Even if they didn't, I'd totally win. So no sense worrying about that.

"Are you going to do anything before the reaping?"

"No," he grumbles, "Nothing but try to read, if you'd stop distracting me."

"But that book is so boring! And all you ever do is stare at it!"

"Please, Rachel, do me a favor and shut up."

I'm offended, and I throw my apple core at his stupid fat head, and miss. I can tell he's laughing at me, and my cheeks burn. Maybe Becka will be at the square already.

"I hope you die!" I scream over my shoulder, and I run out the door, slamming it behind me. I do hope he dies. My brother is so… errgh! I just want to kill him!

My feat beat the dusty pavement, but I'm so tired to run all the way to the square. Maybe I'm a bit out of shape, but it's mostly because stupid Isaiah wouldn't make me any food.

I'm in luck. They've already set up the square, but only a few people are already seating themselves. I push through to the fourteens, though a Peacekeeper has to go through the motions of stamping my name in, asking for my birthday. It really annoys me, because I'll be fifteen in like two months. But he still acts all official, pointing me to the section and telling me to walk carefully.

I flip him off when he isn't looking. I am fed up with people telling me what to do.

Becka is sitting in a completely vacant row, and I toss myself in next to her. Immediately, I start talking.

"You are not going to _believe_ what my stupid brother did this morning!"

"What?" she asks eagerly, obviously starved for someone to talk to.

"Okay, you know how my parents spend, like, all day at work? Well, I got up after you called me, and he totally refused to make breakfast! And all I had was this one apple from the pantry, and he got _soooo_ defensive over his little career training book- seriously, he yelled at me when I said, like, one word! Uggh! He makes me sick!"

"I'm so sorry!" she says, patting my arm. "You should tell your parents."

"Don't go all sappy on me," I snap, "I'm still mad."

"Okay, sorry."

"Don't say sorry!"

"Okay! Gosh," she sighs, digging into her purse. "Here, want some gum? I have some extra gum."

I put my hand down on the wooden chair I'm sitting in, and I get a splinter. Stupid cheap District Six. Why couldn't I have been born in District One?

We chew gum for a bit, but it's the cheap kind made from pine resin that sticks to your teeth. It's pretty gross, but it gives you something to do.

"Hey, do you believe in karma?" Becka asks after a while, swallowing her gum.

I spit mine out and tuck it under the splintery seat, but I get another sliver stuck in my hand.

"It sounds fake," I reply, nursing my wounded finger.

"Well, I found a book about it, and it makes a bit of sense. Like, you know, equal reactions and stuff? We learned about it in school."

"When did you start reading books? You sound like Isaiah," I scoff, finally pulling out the painful sliver of wood.

"No, seriously," she insists. "Like, if I do something bad, something bad will happen to me."

"You mean, say, if I his you, you'd hit me back? That's not karma, its called payback. It means that if someone hurts me, I'm allowed to hurt them."

She sighs, but doesn't say anything more on the subject. What a relief.

"Do you have any more gum?" I ask, and she hands me a lump and takes one herself. It's vile stuff. But anything to get her to stop talking.

The chairs start to fill up, and another of my friends, Joseph, joins us.

"Hey Becka, Rach. How's it going?"

Becka's pulled out an old-looking book, and doesn't seem to notice him. I read the cover. 'Karma'. Why am I _so_ not surprised?

"You would not believe the nonsense Becka's been spouting. Something spiritual. Ancient forces that get you back if you do bad things." I wave my fingers theatrically. "_Spooky_!"

He snorts, and Becka glares at him.

"Laugh all you want," she sniffs. "You'll get yours."

We laugh over this for a while, and she looks indignant for a minute, before re immersing herself into her book.

"Does she remind you of someone?" Joseph mutters, and I notice that Isaiah has arrived at the square, holding his book and lost in thought.

"Yeah. His name starts with an 'I' and ends with a 'saiah'."

Then we start laughing all over again, and soon the crowd has converged, and we are no longer alone. I feel a little less invincible in the crowd, remembering Becka's words.

"_You'll get yours_."

Well, you know what? I can't wait to find out what 'mine' are.

**-x**

**Haha! Chapter on time! I'm going to make this a once-a-day habit. :D  
Please review, it makes my day.**

_This update's question_: Who do you want to sponsor so far?


	14. Forester, District Seven

**Forester Montgomery-Cunningham**

You try having a ten-syllable name. Let's see how you turn out. Okay, you survive early childhood. Congratulations. This far into the Districts, that's something of an achievement. Whoops, now you're in school. Oh no, you can't spell your first and last name. I guess that means it's the 'regressed' class for you. Tough luck there. Now you're ten, and your only friends are the _real_ regressed ones, who can't tell a spruce from a slash pine. Your teacher finally realizes you're not a total idiot.

But it's too late. You're already 'stupid' to the rest of the kids. You know, the ones who could spell 'Leif Edwards' and 'Jenny Gardner' just fine. The ones whose parents have a normal sense of humor.

Believe me on this one. You'd drop out, too.

So there you go. You have my life, in a few seconds. Sixteen, couldn't take it any more, dropped out of school last year.

All because I couldn't spell my stupid name.

I can't really see how the amount of education I received in my last few years in school had anything to do with logging. For one thing, chopping down trees is kind of fun. It gives you something to do with your hands. It's just kind of hard to see trees, which you've spent the last decade of your life learning all about, loving, and respecting, when they fall.

Probably, I would compare it just a little bit to murder. But I've never killed anyone, so I wouldn't know. Still, I get paid. And that's the important thing. I have to earn money, so I can eat, and save a few coins every time I get paid. I want to be able to afford my own house, someday.

I think of dropping out as getting a head start on the other kids. Finally, I'll do something first. I won't be the stupid kid, but I'll be the one with the house, the job, and the little pile of money stashed away.

So I work, and I work hard, and I keep my head down. That's the way my life is going to go, until something changes. I'm really hoping that will come in the form of a marriage, once I'm eighteen. But who wouldn't?

Reaping day doesn't necessarily mean I get to sleep in. When you're at the bottom rung of the metaphorical ladder, you don't miss a day of work just because of a national holiday. You come in on time, and hope you can pick up some extra coins by being the only one there.

I'm awake at the usual time. No alarm clock needed. It's hardwired into my brain at this point to wake up at exactly seven thirty. I'm in a bit of a haze as I get up, put on my work pants, and grab the bagged breakfast I made for myself the night before. Oatmeal with precious little maple syrup, left over from one of my dad's purchases.

My parents are still sound asleep in their room. I rearrange the cushions of the somewhat tawdry couch I sleep on in the living room, and slip out the door. No one hears me. No one needs to.

The feeble streetlamp at the end of the block is flickering in the semi-darkness, not really sure whether the half-risen sun constitutes day or night. It gives the street an unearthly feeling. I don't notice it all too much.

I pass another tired-looking teen, though he appears a bit older than me. I nod at him. He raises his hand in acknowledgement. We don't know each other, but we are going to the same place.

The streets are empty. I prefer them to be quiet, like they are. While people can be threatening, an empty street gives you a lot of freedom. Of course, my only use for that time is transporting myself to another place of servitude. I can still savor it while it lasts.

We are joined by an even older girl, also looking weary and smelling strongly of sawdust. I recognize her, vaguely. She has two kids at home, and only just joined our force of wood-choppers. Phyllis something.

By the time we reach the Gate, we are a small crowd. I recognize a few faces: Shelby Churchward, Wilda Chaney, Elder Hawthorn.

While the workers vary in ages, we lean towards the younger side- most experienced workers are given holidays. Once we use up our three sick days, there's no more missing work for a year unless you want to get fired.

A Peacekeeper waits at the Gate, checking off our names on her list. She waves us all in after spending a moment on one missing name. I hope, for his sake, that 'Grover LaVerne' was saving his sick days for such an occasion.

Our axes are left haphazardly in several piles around the small, dark room the Gate leads to. I grab the one I recognize as mine. It's a nice axe, sturdy, and about as long as my forearm. The blade is shining and fine, as I sharpened it yesterday.

One by one, we trudge out, to where Peacekeepers and supervisors will tell us what to do. I am sent with the older Girl, Phyllis, and a boy that I don't know at all.

The assigned trees are not noble specimens, but gangly, tall pines. Soft, pale wooded. Very fragrant. I estimate that each will take twenty strokes to fell.

The unnamed boy and I start as soon as we come to terms with our surroundings. Though the axe feels powerful in my hands, I feel like a traitor for stabbing such a young tree. Phyllis seems to be sharing some spiritual communication with her side of the grove. It wouldn't help me, but I'm glad to see, once again, that I am not alone in my distaste for killing.

I'm almost finished with my tree when I finally remember her last name. I've been searching my mind, and I finally come upon its significance. Phyllis Mason. Her parents had quite the job after the Great Rebellion, convincing the Peacekeepers that Mason was a very common name, and they were in no way related to the Johanna of the same surname.

Phyllis would probably have been alive, then. I wonder if she remembers the rebellion? By my birth, all the hope was gone. All the rebels had been tracked down. Every one of them, along with whatever family the Capitol could find, was executed.

President Snow's death hadn't changed a thing, though security was tightened greatly after his assassination. Or so I've been told, by history books. For a while, the Presidency was a snake not without a head, but with its venom gland removed, at least.

While I can't say for sure that President Norris is better or worse, he was the one who stepped up and led the crippled Presidency into their crude victory.

He killed the rebels himself. No one knows exactly how. But the information is out there, and it creates a nice mindset of terror for the population. Keeps us in line. You don't want to rebel against someone nicknamed 'The Executioner'.

There's practically a cult following for him in the Capitol. The maniacs who idolize him, twisting stories of his 'accomplishments' until the truth is too disfigured to find. They help to whip up a tidy little panic in the populace as well.

All I really know about the guy is that he's blunt, ruthless, and speaks differently than most Capitolites. While President Snow was a snake, this guy is a bear. A mean old grizzly bear.

I've never actually seen one, but I've heard stories about lumberjacks, deep in the woods, being torn to shreds. Bet that's what he did to the rebels. No poison for him, either.

He doesn't even bother to cover up his opposition's deaths. Who would call him out on it?

I've finished about half of my trees, and a crew comes by to drag the trunks onto a sort of cart. I say a silent goodbye to the young trees, and keep chopping. Phyllis is not quite so far done as I am, but the nameless boy is much farther. He will be done in a few minutes.

Suddenly, water break is called. I have been working for well over an hour. It surprises me how deep in thought I can find myself.

Phyllis, nameless boy, and I head over to the barrel. We are handed cups by supervisors, and we sit down on stumps for our lukewarm drinks. I open up my oatmeal, and eat it quickly.

"Any reaping plans?" the nameless boy asks, surprising me.

"Uh, not exactly," I answer. "You don't mind me asking your name, do you?"

He smiles.

"I'm Chuck Davies. You're Forester Montgomery-Cunningham. I could never forget that name."

I snort.

"Believe me, I've tried. Were you in my class, or something?"

"Not exactly," he replies. "I was a few years ahead. 'Graduated' last year."

"Oh," I say, lacking a better answer, but wanting to keep the conversation going. "So… you're eighteen?"

"Nineteen. Finally too old for the reaping."

I nod. I can't wait until my nineteenth birthday. Though, by then, I plan not to have to chop trees every morning. Putting me ahead of Chuck Davies.

"You shouldn't worry. How would they fit your name on the slip?"

He laughs for nearly a full minute over that one, and I have to roll my eyes. Almost everyone who knows me has at least one Forester Montgomery-Cunningham joke.

When I get married, I'm taking my wife's name.

The supervisors and Peacekeepers yell at us all, and then break is over. I miserably chop down the rest of my stand, and receive a coin per tree. I make a decent amount of money, all told.

On the way home, the sun has already risen. I drop by a vender for some maple syrup, because we are not otherwise low on supplies, and I know my parents will appreciate it.

I don't need any more happiness today than my father's smile, and the reassurance that if they can't fit my name on the slip, I can't be reaped…

**-x**

**Two in a row, baby! I'm writing on time, and we're now EVEN CLOSER TO THE GAMES! I'm getting pumped! Go check out my profile for a new sponsor-y poll thing.**

**Thanks, NaNo! Now I've got a 50,000 word deadline, and I intend to make it!**

**(3753/50000)**

_This update's question_: Finnick, Gale, or Peeta?


	15. Asha, District Seven

**Asha Woodlawn**

My parents don't live together. So what? It doesn't matter. It's not my choice. I don't care that much at all. I can see either of them whenever I want. That part _is_ my decision. And I choose to live with my grandmother.

She's not batty, or mean, or controlling. And while she's definitely not rich, I'm better off with her than with my parents. I got out of my family before any other kids were born, but, if I cared to track them down, I'm sure I've got some half-siblings running around.

I haven't seen my mom in four years, or my dad in two. But I'm fine with that. My grandmother is all the parent I need.

People might think it a bit odd for me to still be in school, at seventeen. Most people dropped out by last year, having big families to provide for, or futures to secure. My grandma would have none of that. Her first husband owned a good portion of the forest around District Seven, thanks to connections with the mayor.

After he died of pneumonia, she took over. My grandmother may not have had much formal schooling, as she dropped out herself, but she struggled along and managed to keep the land, selling it bit by bit to the loggers, and buying new land with all the money she earned.

She's not about to let me be like her, and stumble along through business. I will leave school early over her dead body.

One thing about my grandma is that she does not advocate sleeping in. Ever.

At seven thirty, sharp, she is at my bedside, nudging me awake.

"Asha, time for breakfast."

After five years of it, you'd think I'd be used to early mornings. Though I don't complain, I am still bleary after having a difficult night's sleep.

"Wash your face, dear, and come over to the dining room."

Grandma calls the small kitchen-slash-sitting room area our dining room. She's always wanted to be wealthy, and I think it makes her feel that way. I stumble out into the hall, towards the slightly shabby bathroom. The sink and the toilet are fed by a rickety old pump, connected to an aquifer below the house.

I splash frigid water onto my face, which momentarily fuddles me. My mind can latch onto the sensation of gelidity, though, and after a bit of sputtering, my head clears. I dab my face off with a towel, and walk past grandma's room into the dining room.

The table is set as fancily as I've ever seen it. Grandma has filled an old, cut-glass vase with wildflowers. The plates, though slightly yellowed, are clean, and she has added what little silverware we have in neat rows.

My grandmother herself is in the kitchen, busying herself over sweetened flat-cakes and the last of the strawberry jam. She brings the breakfast to the table on yet another plate.

"You should have let me help," I say, but she just smiles.

"You only have one last year of this reaping nonsense. Might as well make a celebration of it!"

I grin back, taking my place as she takes hers.

The flat-cakes are good, perfectly sweetened, if a little grainy. Tessera flour is like that. Grandma fervently objects to my taking out any Tessera at all, but the properties don't make enough each month to keep us in food.

Of the meal, the strawberry jam is my favorite. I can still remember picking the berries for it with grandma. The permit for foraging in the meadow was steep, but I took a few little jobs around the district, and we made it work.

"How did you sleep, grandma?" I ask her, over the remnants of my jam, which I drag a piece of flat-cake through.

"Oh, just fine, darling. Yourself?"

I shrug noncommittally. I slept just fine, but I did have a few dreams. Nothing terrifying, or even worth waking up over.

"Asha, dear, please speak in sentences," she insists, and it takes a great deal of willpower not to sigh like the teenager I am.

"I slept well," I answer, keeping my tone even.

She smiles in a satisfied manner.

"I'm glad."

I continue to scrape up strawberry jam with my flat-cake. It still tastes like summer sun; through rain is beginning to patter on the tiny window in the kitchen.

"Do we have any plans today, grandma?" I finally ask.

"Well, I was considering taking a few flat-cakes down to the Masons. You know they're going through hard times. Phyllis just had her baby, did I tell you?"

A lump forms in my stomach.

"And… would you be expecting me to come along?"

She looks a bit startled.

"Why, of course! The Masons are a lovely young couple, and they'll appreciate anything we can do for them."

You'd think I could get over it, after all my life in District Seven. But I still can't stand to see poverty. Though I suppose grandma and I aren't the wealthiest, it makes my chest ache to see people even worse off than us. It's not that I dislike them. I just hate myself for having more, for being better off, even marginally, and not being able to do anything about it.

That's the real reason I don't want to go. And it's horrible and selfish, but it's the truth. I know the flat-cakes aren't going to help as much as the Masons need. In fact, I would feel stupid giving so little. But I don't know what else to do.

So I lie.

"I don't feel very good, grandma."

"Oh dear!" she says, standing up and walking over. "You know we can't miss the reaping, of course. Still, come with me. There will be a place for you to sit, I'm sure."

There are no further means to resist, and the knot in my stomach only tightens. Reluctantly, I walk to my room to dress.

I don't feel comfortable putting on anything nice. I barely even have good clothes worth speaking of, so it isn't much of a hindrance. Finally, I decide on a faded black skirt and a well-worn grey blouse that must have belonged to my grandmother once. It certainly seems old enough.

Clothes don't make me feel better, and I know that nothing will. My day has been tainted by… what it is? My own arrogance? I don't know. I wish I did.

Grandma makes small talk as we walk one, two, three, at least twenty blocks. She's in better shape than I am. By the time we can smell the sawdust indicative of our proximity to a mill, I'm panting and struggling to keep up.

_At least it fits in with my excuse_, I think, gloomily. And then I feel terrible for having an excuse at all, and I try to clear my head.

Usually, when I'm trying to calm down, I look to the faces of the people around me. Maybe I'm searching for resemblance, for a brother or a sister that I'll instantly know as mine. Or maybe it's just calming to know that there are many, many worse people in the world than me. And many better.

It helps to know that the weight of the world is not on me. That most of the world doesn't even care about me.

I wonder, vaguely, if my parents would recognize me, if they were passing me on the street. It's doubtful. I don't have any distinguishing features. Plain, straight brown hair to my shoulders. A nice-enough, but plain face. My nose is a little too big, my mouth a bit too small. I'm healthy enough weight, but not over or under the norm. I've got no muscle to speak of.

What am I that distinguishes me from the rest of the population? I like to think that I'm nice enough, but I keep proving myself at least partially incorrect, with each impulsive lie or bad thought. I'm not exceptionally smart, but I keep up with my studies. Diligent, my grandma calls me. I am a hard worker.

Maybe it's how normal I am that makes me stand out, if at all. Around me, I see people stooped with age, with angry eyes, with beautiful faces, with just a bit of excess paunch.

I'm none of those. I'm not passionate about anything in particular. I'm just me.

But that never seems to be enough.

We reach the house, and I'm tired and sweaty, with little flecks of sawdust clinging to my skin.

My grandmother knocks smartly on the door.

"Come in," a weary man's voice calls from inside.

I open the door for grandma, and she thanks me quietly. I stand awkwardly for a second in the darkish room, seemingly tacked on to what I can only assume is a bedroom. There is a little table set up, and a shabby sitting chair facing the television in the corner.

In the back room, a baby is whimpering.

The man who emerges, holding the sad child, is the epitome of beaten-down. His hair is unkempt, his clothes faded beyond grey. His face is worn into a slightly gaunt mask. He may not be starving, but there is a pain in his eyes that tells of hunger.

"Oh, Miss Greystone, Miss Woodlawn. Please sit down. Thank you so much for coming."

His words are warm, but brittle. Tired. As faded as his shirt. I try to meet his gaze, not knowing what else to do. But my grandmother obviously does.

"Alon, it's good to see you. And is this your son? Oh, he's marvelous," she says, taking her basket of flat-cakes from her arm. "We had flat-cakes this morning, and we thought of your family."

She offers him the basket, which I notice also contains a little pot of jam. I add my smile to hers, hoping he accepts.

"Thank you kindly, but we can't possibly- I mean, it would be- I'm sorry, but…" he says haltingly, like he's fighting it out with his mind.

I can see it. I understand what he's thinking. He doesn't want to accept charity. No one does. He's trying to refuse. But he knows his family needs the food. This young man is almost, almost too proud to accept.

Grandma seems hopeful that he will make up his mind, but I take a different path.

"I'm sure Phyllis will love them. Just the other day, I saw her, and you know what? She helped me out, when my hand was caught in a… door," I lie, wondering where the words are coming from, but almost certain that they will have the desired effect. "I was wondering what we could do to say thank you… and I'm sure she'll find them delicious," I finish.

There are two reasons why people will believe a lie. Because they want it to be true, and because they fear that it is true.

I can see that he believes me. And that he will not ask Phyllis about my door incident. We understand each other. I think grandma does, too.

"Oh, that Phyllis," she says warmly, "you lucked out, Alon. Pass on our thanks for all she has done for us, and the district."

I smile at the baby, who stops whimpering, staring at me intently. Probably wondering what strange creature I am. I stick out my tongue, and he pokes his out, as well. I can't help laughing, and he smiles a toothless baby-smile back.

Alon laughs as well, and I look up, having forgotten that he was in the room.

"His name is Evan," he explains, bouncing the baby lightly in his arms. "I think he likes you."

My grandmother is still watching Alon intently, as though she is afraid he will still somehow reject the cakes. I think he notices her gaze, and her intentions. He's a very smart, if young, man.

As if to reassure her, he reaches down, breaks off a piece of one, and eats it.

"Delicious," he says, "you've outdone yourself, Miss Greystone."

She blushes slightly, her crinkly sin turning a pale pink.

"Do call me Ellery, Alon. You'll make me feel old before my time."

We smile a bit more, exchange some mild small talk, and grandma and I excuse ourselves. We'll need to get home before the reaping starts, to clean ourselves up.

As we leave the house, grandma turns to me.

"How do you feel, Asha? Still sick?"

"No," I answer truthfully, already lost in my own world again. "Much better."

**-x**

**Sorry for the one-day delay. The chapter is extra long to make up for it. :)**

** 6073/50000**

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	16. Holland, District Eight

**Holland Love**

I have a pretty good life. People seem to like me, I have plenty of friends, and my family can put food on the table and make ends meet. I get along well enough with my older sister, even when she's a control freak. And she mostly puts up with me, as well.

Life would probably be perfect. If I lived anywhere but in Panem.

Before I even wake up, I'm worrying about the reapings. District Eight may not be the biggest district, but it's good-sized. And I'm good friends with a lot of the people who are eligible to be reaped.

It goes without saying that I had nightmares the day before a potential death sentence. Not that I can remember any. It's uncommon that I remember dreams, and even then, Charlotte would tease me mercilessly if I shared them.

Of course, I'd do the same to her. It's what siblings are here for. Toughening you up so that you can laugh anything off.

When I do get up, it's because I'm hungry. Charlotte tried to cook dinner last night, which was a monumental waste of food. She set the poor turkey practically on fire by adding too much starter to the hearth that heats the stove. I ended up making cheese sandwiches for us all while she grumbled and scraped the charred remains of the bird off of the pan. Lucky it was a small turkey. I'm pretty sure the loss won't set us too far back.

My sister is already up, as I can tell by the footsteps in the living room, and the fact that my parents never, ever get up early on a reaping day. I can only hope she isn't in the kitchen. I take a deep breath, and roll out of bed.

Beneath my feet, the floorboards make a little sound as they adjust to my weight. For a second, my head rushes as my blood pressure stabilizes. And then I'm up.

Slowly, I walk to the door, pausing to pull on a threadbare white shirt and switching out of my pajama pants. Through the clothes are chilly, it's an interesting sensation, heavily deviating from the cozy warmth of my bed.

"Hey, Char," I say, shuffling out of my room.

"'Morning," she replies, not looking up from a tattered paperback book.

"The house is still standing. That mean you haven't had any breakfast yet?" I ask, grinning.

She chucks the book at me, and I catch it.

"Shut up, Holland."

My sister's face is much thinner than mine, partially from genetics, and partially because she doesn't eat enough. We have the same eyes, though hers are rounder than mine. Her hair is a dark brown, and nice enough, but she has it piled in a scraggly heap this morning.

We probably look remotely related. But more like cousins. Who live in different parts of the district. While she's leaning towards bony, I'm carrying a few more pounds than I probably need. Not enough to be a concern, but more like an… insurance against starvation.

"You know you'd starve to death without me," I remind her, walking into the little kitchen-y thing. "Anything in particular you want?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry," she says, retrieving her book and presumably going back to reading it.

It worries me when Charlotte doesn't eat, as is often the case. I don't think it's a conscious choice on her part- I would be able to tell if she was starving herself intentionally. I can tell things like that about people.

"I'll get you some yogurt anyway," I tell her. She's already too deep in her book to hear me. "District Twelve isn't really destroyed, and mom was elected Mayor," I say matter-of-factly.

She mumbles something, and I stifle a laugh.

"We're moving to District One."

I get the same reaction, and I have to bite my fist to avoid saying anything.

"The Capitol has been overthrown by goats."

It's so funny I have to stop. This is a game I play with my sister, when she is reading. She gets so lost in a book, a show, or some sort of craft; she pays absolutely no attention to her surroundings.

The worn tiles of the kitchen are cool to the touch, and I pad on through to the icebox. It's mostly bare, but for a jar of yogurt, the remains of a small block of cheese, and a pitcher of water that we always keep chilled.

Yogurt is good. I remember buying it about a week ago. Mom had just gotten paid, so she was a bit giddy. That was the same day we bought the little turkey. It probably wasn't fully grown, and most likely its provider shot it in the woods.

But we didn't know that for sure. And even if we did, our family is not the kind to go talking to the Peacekeepers.

I grab the yogurt, and the cheese. Might as well finish them off. We're going to a friend of dad's house for dinner, and we'll be able to go shopping again tomorrow.

Barring catastrophe, of course. But no one wants to talk about that. Not on reaping day. Though all of our plans are, of course, flexible. In case we need to console a family, or- it's a horrible thought, which makes my stomach churn- be consoled ourselves.

I pour a few tin cups of water, on the assumption that mom and dad will be up soon, and fill a bowl with yogurt for Charlotte. My parents will want to get their own food. The cheese, I will eat. There's not much, but I can afford to eat a little less. Charlotte can't. Besides, I'll probably have a big dinner. Dad's friend is in close association with the mayor, and always has plenty to eat on his own, and to share.

His son fancies Charlotte, as well. But I try not to think about that. She doesn't reciprocate, or she would tell me. Not in as many words, but I would know.

I push the bowl of yogurt to her, and sit down at the opposite side of the table after setting the tin cups at each place. Charlotte is still reading her book, but she's a bit less hazy, reaching down and taking a small bite of her breakfast.

Hopefully, she'll eat it all.

Definitely, I'm being absurd. Charlotte can take care of herself perfectly well, and she often takes care of me, besides. But that doesn't stop me from worrying. She's family, and while friends are plenty important, family lasts a whole lot longer.

When I'm dead, Charlotte will still be my sister. She could be annoying, spacey, spiteful, or plain, flat-out mean, and she'd still be my sister. She could kill someone, and that wouldn't stop me from being her brother, and trying to see the good in whatever she does.

But I don't let on about it much. Because she may be my sister, and I might be willing to stop a bullet with my body for her, but that doesn't mean she has to _know_. I mean, how awkward would that be?

I'm her annoying little brother, and she's my bossy older sister. It's better that way.

I've finished the last of the cheese, and I am seriously considering the rinds, when mom slumps out of her room, blinking in the sunlight that streams through both our little windows.

Mom is a teacher. She's entitled to sleep in on a Saturday, and she always does. My dad is the supervisor of both of our district's schools, so he has less of an excuse, but he does it anyway. I don't begrudge either of them.

Most likely, I'd sleep in just as late as they do, if I could get away with it. But I'd have to be a better student then I am to justify being tired from school.

"Hey, mom," I say, and she mutters something unintelligible. "Good morning to you, too."

Charlotte puts her book away altogether. Mom doesn't like her to read at the table.

"So, what fictional characters have grasped your interest lately?" I ask, watching her take another tiny bite of yogurt.

"Ha ha. It's _historical_ fiction. Pre-Panem," she sniffs.

"And? Come on, you know you like it for a reason. And you never read for school."

She gives me an exasperated look.

"Well, it's kind of romance, I guess. Absurdly happy people who aren't organized by years, but by 'Junior' and 'Sophomore' and stuff. The author doesn't really know what he's doing. They sound so vapid."

"That doesn't sound like much of a book."

"Well, get this. They solve _mysteries_."

"I solve mysteries every day, and no one writes books about me," I complain. She looks unsympathetic.

"They do important stuff. Like, their dad gets locked up by the law people, and goes to a holding facility. And they have to get him released," she tries to explain.

"How does this have anything to do with absurdly happy people?"

"Uggh, Holland, you can be so stupid! Of course they're happy! That's because the author is from the Capitol, and he has no idea what it's like to feel anything else!"

She looks a bit surprised that she said anything, and my mom returns from the kitchen, looking a bit more awake. She's holding a cup of what I can only assume is coffee, by the way she is clutching it.

"Settle down, settle down," she says, putting her cup down slowly, and placing a hand on each of our shoulders. I don't see the necessity, as neither of us are feeling, or looking, particularly violent.

"Holland, honey, don't torture your sister. Charlotte, try to be careful about what you say."

Mom is an effortless mediator, even when she's foggy from sleeping. We murmur assent, and go back to eating as she finishes her coffee.

After a few minutes, dad manages to get up as well, kissing the top of mom's head before going into the kitchen for his own coffee. As weird as it is, it's kind of nice to know that my parents still really do love each other.

'Love is out there,' my mom likes to joke, usually when she's fully awake. And I'm sure there's someone for me, somewhere. Because why not?

The future promises good things. Might as well believe in them.

**-x**

**Not too shabby, eh? I'm still writing this pretty regularly, though I continue to hate writing reapings, and I always will.**

**Thanks to all the readers out there, and virtual cookies to the reviewers. Virtual money to the people who take my poll. Yes, it will change an outcome or two. :)**

**8049/50000**

_This update's question_: Would you like me to use a real sponsorship system, or the same disorganized thingie as in A Capitol Experience?


	17. Perl, District Eight

**Perl Bolton**

Nightmares on the day of the reaping are common. What I'm not used to is having someone to comfort me. It took a long time for me to really get used to being married. But now, waking up with tremors down my back, and only Chino's arm around my shoulders keeping me anchored to reality, I am more certain than ever that I made the right choice.

Life is too short to wait.

Chino is snoring under his breath, which is sort of nice, because it keeps me from falling asleep again. I don't want to go back to sleeping, to the dream where a grown Moire was called, her name drawn, the crowd silent. My little girl.

As if in an answer to my depressing thoughts, I hear a piercing cry- one that I recognize in a second, that I could hear a mile away, even behind the noise of a factory in full production. It's my baby. Moire Russet Bolton.

She was born just two months after I was married. Finding out was a surprise, but not a huge one. Chino and I arranged to be married as soon as we learned. Just a little after graduation. It wasn't a big deal, really. Everyone had been expecting us to marry since we were kids. Chino was the crazy one, who could break anything that exists to be broken. I was the quiet one, who tried to keep him out of trouble, and covered for him when I inevitably failed.

Thank goodness he grew up. I don't think I could handle two children in the house. Not yet.

I smile as I get up, gently nudging his arm away and padding across the room to the small crib. My little daughter is stirring, possibly having a nightmare herself. I cradle her in my arms, whispering comforting things and rubbing her tiny back until she calms down. She's so small. A tiny, warm little life in my arms.

Though she isn't the prettiest of babies, with mottled skin that has a tinge of jaundiced yellow, I love her more than anything. She's my baby, and I will never let anything happen to her. Her seven month birthday will be in just a week.

For the moment, I never want her to change. But I know that by the time she is twelve, nineteen won't come fast enough.

I wonder what she'll look like, then. If she is like me, as her complexion suggests, she will be tall for her age. Already, she is longer than average. Her hair is wispy and blonde, but I can't help hoping it will darken to Chino's deep brown, instead of my pale brunette. Her eyes are grey, but darkening by the day. Both Chino and I have brown eyes, and it is likely that she will at least be hazel by the time a year is up.

"You're going to be beautiful," I whisper to her. But I sort of change my mind. She already is.

Though I've been trying to switch her over to formula, as her needs make it difficult for me to work regular hours, I'm feeling a bit too groggy to mix up the powdered stuff that is supposed to be good for her. She seems hungry, though, so I take a few minutes to sit down and feed her before I can try to lie down again.

I feel better, after holding her. I'm not as scared of my dreams, knowing for certain that the real Moire is lying in the crib, just a few feet from my bed. And exhaustion, left over from getting up to feed her in the middle of the night, is creeping up on me.

Warm and inviting as the bed is, I can't sleep. I curl up against Chino's chest, and he reflexively seems to hug me close. For nearly an hour, I listen to them breathe. My daughter and my husband. We are always safe together.

He wakes up as the sunlight in the tiny bedroom window is intensifying, blinking awake, and making a noise between a yawn and a sigh.

"Morning, Perl," he says simply, kissing my forehead.

"Glad to see you awake, Chino. You slept through three alarms last night. I thought you were comatose."

"Alarms?" he asks, but notices that I am looking meaningfully at Moire's crib. "Oh, sorry. You should have shook me awake."

"I try not to. Tomorrow night, you're doing it yourself. So consider the debt repaid."

We lay there for a little while, reveling in each other's company and in the first off-day in a long time. But we're both hungry, and Moire will be too, soon. It's hard, but I make myself get up. I haven't been so happy in a long time.

I put on some fresh clothes, and tie my hair up in the back. While Chino dresses, I walk into the only other room in our house, were we have a little icebox, a few cupboards, and an iron potbelly stove. There's a rickety table with two chairs shoved into the opposite corner, and I take the tin cups and dishes off, from where I left them after dinner.

Just a block away, there is a little pump for water. I grab a clean container, slip on some shoes, and carry the dishes and the vessel down the street. A few other people are out already, but the pump is vacant. I wash off the dishes, and fill the pitcher, which I couldn't do in the hours after dinner. While our little street is perfectly safe in the daylight, with the occasional Peacekeeper to dispel any issues, it's best not to attempt the walk at night. It's not the nicest neighborhood, and Chino and I are saving up to move out as soon as possible.

We've got our eye on a little blue house, on the other side of the district square. It's got two bedrooms, and running water straight into the kitchen. But it is expensive, and we're already working just to get by. Once Moire is old enough to be left at my mother's, I'll be able to work full time, and things will be easier. Money-wise, at least. It's already hard for me to leave my baby with Chino the few hours I work.

At least my mom is a little more competent, in terms of taking care of a baby. He tried to change her onesie, once. Only bad things happened, and I came home to find Moire in tears, and him practically ripping his hair out.

I can't really blame him. It's not like he's had any more experience than me. He's less than a year older. And those little contraptions are near impossible to figure out.

When I get back to the house, Chino is feeding Moire from a little tin cup. It's much more difficult than the usual method, but when Moire wants food, she wants it. I won't always be around to take care of her, no matter how difficult it is for me to accept that.

I take Moire, and help her finish off the little cup's contents. Chino dries off the plates and cups, before pouring a little of the pitcher's water into a pot, and setting it on the stove to boil.

Moire lies, content, in my arms, and I watch him boil some tessera grain, pouring in a little sugar and, for a treat, I'm guessing, cinnamon. I hug Moire close, and she makes gurgling, baby noises, grabbing at my fingers. I hold her hand in one of mine, and she tilts her head quizzically, like a bird.

"La?" she inquires, wiggling her fingers. I have to laugh, and she crinkles her nose at the noise.

Chino has boiled the grain to its standard, mushy consistency. He glops a little on each plate, but gives me a little more. I offer him a grateful smile.

"Hey, don't worry, Perl. Cut yourself some slack."

We eat quietly, but it's a content sort of quiet. I have to wonder how it happened. I'm only eighteen, though very close to my birthday. Aren't eighteen year olds supposed to be crazy kids, getting their first jobs, trying to move out, yelling at their parents?

"We don't seem all that young anymore," I say quietly, bouncing Moire in my arms.

"It's only in the Capitol that you can still be a kid at eighteen," he replies. And it's the truth. Every day, you see younger and younger kids at the factory. My shift partner on Friday was fourteen, a gangly thing named Bobbin, whose face was still spotty.

"But we made it. We're happy now," I tell him.

"I know. Why is it so terrifying, to have life be so close to perfect?" he asks, looking up at me. "We're not supposed to be happy. We're supposed to be at each other's throats, regretting that we ever even considered getting married."

"Come on, Chino. Life is hard. We've got to get a break sometime."

I smile wryly. Moire, who seems in a talkative mood, starts to babble, which elicits laughter from the both of us.

"Perl," Chino starts, but Moire cuts him off with a stern, if adorable, glare.

"Peh!" she shrieks, looking up at me.

"Did you hear that?" Chino says excitedly, "she said Perl!"

A chuckle escapes my lips before I can muffle it.

"Chino, she said 'peh'. Moire won't start talking for a few months," I say wistfully, though I would like it to be true as much as he would.

"Peh! Peh!" Moire insists, reaching up at my face and grabbing a little piece of hair.

"Ow!"

Chino ignores it, standing up and scooping her out of my arms.

"Who's going to be a little genius? I just know it!"

I sigh, watching him wave her in his arms as she gurgles happily, grabbing at his hair as well, interjecting her babbling with the occasional shriek of 'Peh!'. They're so sweet. She'll love him, and I'm pretty sure she already does. I may be the provider of food and maternal attention, but she's going to be her father's daughter.

I don't mind. She's my little girl, too.

"Are you ready for the reaping, Perl?" Chino asks, after dancing around the room with Moire for at least fifteen minutes. He's sobered up a bit, but she still bounces happily in his arms.

Of course I am. It's our last day of worrying for twelve years. After today, we can be truly, truly happy.

"Definitely. Don't worry about me. You take Moire, and I'll find you afterwards."

He catches me in a hug, but I lean up and kiss him.

"It's going to be okay," I whisper. "We're finally going to be safe."

**-x**

**Whoo! Keeping up with this. Only six more to go. Be sure to vote on my poll!**

**10021/50000**

_This update's question_: Has your favorite changed since I last asked? If so, who is it now?


	18. Tanner, District Nine

**Tanner Faustus**

Waking up isn't hard. You get used to getting up at the crack of dawn, after a while. I guess I just don't need much sleep, because I'm definitely up, even if I don't much want to be. It's reaping day. As if anyone doesn't know that.

I shrug out of my night shirt and pajama pants, trading them for my denim work outfit. The stuff is practically indestructible, but it's been washed thin in the five years I've owned it. I go through clothes pretty fast.

Dad is already up, and getting to work. See, apparently, the point of being self-employed is that you don't have to stop working on the holidays. I can't say I'd mind, but with mom dead, it's only me and my dad. And we've got to eat, and pay for the house, and buy the pelts so we can start the whole sordid thing over again.

I'm Tanner. It's my name, and it's also what I do.

The house reeks of the chemicals we use on the furs from the hunters. It always does. Dad is standing at the little table, kneading a deer skin we've been working for quite a while. Neither of us speaks, but I go to finish scraping a more recent deer's hide.

It's not easy work. And it smells awful. But I'm good at it, and, again, it keeps us in food.

Maybe I'd have a few more friends if I was a hunter, like most guys. Or a woods guide, which really can't be all that difficult- though it pays a lot less. I'm not saying that being a tanner is exactly lucrative, but there are still Capitol freaks that pay very well for a deer, a mink, or even a squirrel pelt. Though the purchases are far between, they keep us going well enough.

And I'm really not all that lonely. Maybe a little, some days, but not much. My dad makes for okay company, even if he doesn't talk.

I still look forward to the days when he asks me to take an order, or run errands. Spending so much time in this stinking house makes me hate it a good bit. Just a fact. It's not an easy life, not at all.

But I have to remind myself, often, that it could be worse. We could be going out of business. We could be starving. We could have been in the old house when it fell in on mom.

I can't let myself think too much about the last one, so I scrape the hide even more vigorously.

This particular skin will probably be sent to a Capitol 'hunting enthusiast' who thinks he knows everything about deer, and, thus, deserves to wear one on his feet. Along with most of the skins, except, of course, the occasional ermine or weasel, which we clean specially to be of use for trimming women's fancy coats and gloves.

Like they know what cold is. For them, snow is the pretty white stuff they might have seen on television.

District Nine's few victors have a tradition of committing suicide by the first snowfall. Different worlds, we live in.

I let my hand slip, and my sharpened scraping tool draws a red line of blood across my fingertip. I shake it off. Pain has never really bothered me all that much. I take care, however, to wipe the wound clean on my shirt. Bloodstains on the hide would seriously diminish the value.

Dad and I work in silence for a good long time, before I finally turn out a satisfactory, bare hide. Smiling approvingly, dad claps me on the back.

"You've been working hard, lately. Why not go out and enjoy yourself before the reaping?"

Despite myself, I'm a little relieved. It's true: I have been working hard, for over a year, now, with school being my only break. It barely counts as one. I wonder, idly, if my friends will still recognize me as anything more than a schoolmate, and I realize that I'm a little worried about leaving the stinking tanning shop that has occupied so much of my attention for so long.

"Sure, dad," is all I say. "If it's okay with you."

He nods, and, in a second, he is back to kneading the deer skin. I wonder what I'll do, outside.

On the way to the door, I grab a slice of dry, speckled Tessera bread. The stuff isn't the best, but I realize just how hungry I am. No breakfast, small dinner the previous evening. I don't know how I missed it before.

We live in a hut, or, bluntly, a hovel, towards the center of District Nine. Appearances aside, we're actually one of the better off families. I try not to think about it. We work hard, and we have to go without quite a lot, but much of the district is worse off than we are.

Before the Great Rebellion, we were the second smallest district. Now, with District Twelve off the map, we've regained the pennant. Hoorah. Fire off the confetti and break out the champagne.

I'm walking around listlessly, but I find myself at the Smyk's house. My dad's on pretty good terms with Walker, but it's his son I'm after. We're friends, or at least we used to be.

Rolling my shoulders back, I knock on the door. When it doesn't open immediately, I stop.

"Hello?" I say, trying to be loud but quiet at the same time. "It's Tanner. Rigel's… friend."

The woman who answers the door is not my friend, or his dad. It's a woman I don't recognize. She seems to notice my puzzled expression, and smiles thinly, though the expression doesn't extend to her wide blue eyes.

"Cyrene. Rigel's mother."

"Oh," I say eloquently. "I'm…" "Tanner," she cuts me off. "I know. Though I don't believe we've met, I've heard your name."

I pause to wonder if she's referring to me shouting at the door earlier, but I decide not to think about it.

"Is Rigel home?" I ask, remembering my original goal.

"No. He's in the woods. The reaping, you know. It's a bit hard on him."

She smiles at me, her eyes expectant.

"I'll go talk to him," I say, and she nods. I've done what she wanted, and it is clear that I am to leave.

I do. Rigel's mother is not a happy woman. But who is, around here? At least District Ten and District Eleven have an export that's actually vital to the Capitol. Here in District Nine, you get the sense that President Norris doesn't exactly know what to do with us. Pelts and meat you can get from District Ten. We're spares, stuck in a part of Panem that no one really wanted.

That's not what makes Rigel's mother upset. But it certainly makes it difficult to be happy.

I find Rigel in the allotted woods, a few kilometers in. His house is very close to the forest that encloses the district on all sides, the fence running through it. He doesn't have a weapon, which means he must not be hunting. I was stopped by the border of the woods by a Peacekeeper, who would have put my name down on a card if I had been carrying a bow or a gun.

I would be arrested, possibly whipped, if I didn't return by midnight, carrying the weapon I entered with, forking over whatever I shot for a few coins.

It's a relatively old system, instated long before my time, when our first suicidal victor killed herself in the woods. I don't see how it would stop anyone, but it gives you speed to know that you're risking a whipping not to be back, catch and weapon in hand, by midnight.

He is sitting on a log, staring at a few trees. Not moving, his chin in his hands. Just staring.

"Hey," I say, trying to be quiet, though my voice echoes off the trees and the little pond just a few meters away.

The noise makes me jump- him as well. We both look at each other, and it takes him a minute to recognize me. But then he relaxes.

"It's… Tanner, isn't it?" he asks, and I nod. "My mom sent you," he adds, though it isn't an accusation. Just a fact.

"Yeah. But I asked her where you were."

He just snorts, and I walk over to sit next to him on the log.

"What're you looking at?" I ask, because I'm just dying to.

"It's reaping day, you know?" he replies. I nod again, because I keep being reminded. I wish I could forget. "This is where she died," he adds.

"Who?" I'm a little surprised that anyone could die here, what with the serenity of the area. It doesn't seem like a dying place.

"The first one," he says, and I know instantly what he's talking about. "There."

He points to the base of a tree in the copse he's been staring a hole in.

"Then why…" I trail off. "Why did you come here?"

I lean down on my own hands, trying to level myself with him. I've missed talking to people my age, but this is one awkward topic.

"Because even the winners don't win," he says quietly. "Anyone they pick today is going to die."

"We're all going to die," I say, though it doesn't sound as reassuring as it did in my head.

"No, it's not the same. But, see, they either kill you in the games, or they… I don't know what they do. They make death look good."

I look at the trees, trying to imagine anyone wanting to die so much that they would do it themselves. It would be awful, surely.

Leaves fall in a tiny breeze, but neither of us looks up from the tree. We're thinking. I wonder if it's about the same thing.

"They killed her brother, her parents," he says after a while, and though I'm not horribly surprised, I take a quick breath. "And my uncle."

The unspoken question settles in the air. The sun warms the forest, but we're quiet. The reaping looms over us, like some sort of giant, deadly pine cone, waiting to drop.

We're quiet, because we're worried.

_Who's next?_

**-x**

**Late chapter. Sorry. I spent a day travelling to the hospital, computer less. It was saddening. But I'm back in business. :)**

**Mockingjay spoiler warning for the update question!**

**12021/50000**

_This update's question_: if you could assign names to the two children at the end of Mockingjay, what would they be?


	19. Auroch, District Ten

**Auroch Vachel**

Dangerous. If you asked someone, they would say I was dangerous. Not strong, though I am. Not smart, though that would also be the truth. Not brave, not cunning. Dangerous.

I am dangerous. Simple as that.

No, not a Career. Never a Career. Not a killer, not a savage. Not when I don't have to be. But there is a good reason for everything. When you're dangerous, you don't always need one, though.

I try not to let it go to my head.

After eighteen years of living at home, going to school, working in a butcher's shop since my fifteenth birthday, I live alone. It's preferable to home life, though smaller. I keep my house clean enough, largely by spending very little time actually in it. I don't like to be idle, which makes me a more efficient butcher than some.

Work is where I am the most comfortable. But is there really any place I shouldn't be? Someone my size can change the feeling of a room by walking into it, and can, generally, make people do things. It's not a privilege I abuse, or at least, I like to think so.

Who would tell me otherwise? Who would argue with the muscle-bound, glaring man holding a bloody butcher knife?

My job gives me power, and my size gives me power, and my mind does, as well. Just because I'm large does not mean I'm stupid. I suppose that's what makes me dangerous, instead of intimidating.

I'm nearly seven feet tall, but there's plenty of brain to go around.

What I've learned from the Hunger Games is that people like me tend to have a goal. Money, fame, the experience of murder. I don't. It must be something about the district. If I was raised in District Two, I would have won the games years ago.

Instead, I cut up cow carcasses for a living, just to have something to do. Where's the justice?

Of course, it's Panem, and the obvious answer is 'Ummm…' and edging away.

Reaping day is no different than the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. I graduated from school almost a year ago, to general surprise. So all I have to do is get up and walk to work, which will be empty.

So I do. It's as simple as that. I get up, put on a shirt, and grab a hard biscuit on my way out. No deep thoughts, no ruminations on the future, no wondering about what my family is doing.

I don't really care all that much.

There are a few people up, walking up and down the street with their business, and most simply avoid looking at me. Some attempt a smile, which I do not reciprocate. I don't have a grievance with any of them.

My walk goes uninterrupted, but as I go to pull the key from under the mat, I notice that the door is already ajar- the lock has been broken, somehow.

In the way I respond, I am different than the impulsive District Twos who would run in, weapons blazing, or most District Tens, who would run for the nearest Peacekeeper.

I walk in slowly and quietly, taking great care to disturb nothing. I can hear someone unfamiliar inside. They are nervous, breathing heavily. Perhaps they saw the hours sign posted outside, and figured that no one would be coming in.

I don't have any hours.

Though I am confident that I could easily take most of District Ten's population in a fight at once, I carefully draw one of my large knives, as there is no accounting for a cornered man's desperation.

My workplace is full of potential weapons, and I need something to parry in the case of their use.

Across the large butcher shop, at the end towards the huge old freezer, I hear more scuffling and fast breathing. Then footsteps, light and calculated. They've collected themselves, and they are about to make an escape, no doubt with either meat or money.

My paycheck consists of both, and they will not be robbing _me_ today.

Reassessing their location, I vault over a chopping block, making very little noise, though I am certain they hear me. All sound, even their breathing, stops. I pointedly make mine louder.

No sense in hiding when they know where I am.

I realize that I am already brandishing the butcher's knife, and I lower it, aware that they might be watching me. I would rather face an unarmed opponent.

There are a few steps, almost silent but for the echoing surfaces of the shop. I slowly turn towards the source to see, just a few yards away, a little girl holding a slab of meat.

She's a pitiful thing. Her skin barely shields her body, displaying pale blue veins and prominent bones that speak of hunger. Her hair is dull blonde and pulled away from her face. Her eyes are large and angry. Seeing me, she bares her teeth.

"Just drop the meat," I say, my voice even lower than its standard deep tone. "Drop it and leave."

I expect her to throw it down and bolt from the shop, but instead, she growls something, a much higher pitch than I could ever achieve, and grips the meat. Her eyes move wildly back and forth, and it's obvious she's looking for somewhere to run.

But, I realize, I have her cornered. The chopping block is to my side, blocking off that avenue of escape, and the freezer is, literally, in a corner.

I raise the knife and repeat myself.

"Put it down," I say slowly. "You'll be safe if you put it down."

I half expect her to hiss and arch her back. As she slowly turns, lowering the steak as if she intends to place it on the ground, I begin to relax, though I am still on edge. She's a little over half my size, and much less than half my weight.

Then, her hand an inch away from the ground, she zigzags past me, with speed born of desperation. I swing the knife, a second too late. My reaction time, from hours spent chopping meat and avoiding my hands, is too slow for someone who is genuinely hungry.

It's funny, though, because she doesn't look starved. Just skinny.

The blade imbeds itself in a wooden counter. I was aiming to kill, perhaps mistakenly. I'm not sure if a murder at this point would be justified.

I yank it out, knowing she will have a difficult time navigating the butcher shop, with its maze-like counters and menacing hooks hanging from the ceiling. Quietly, I give chase, though I make sure I am holding the knife blade with the flat side showing. I only want to incapacitate her. She doesn't look very old at all. Maybe eight or nine. I wonder who sent her here.

For someone so young, she is fast. I'll give her that. She manages to avoid the more difficult obstacles, and the only thing stopping her from escaping beneath a low table is the huge steak that she insists on keeping.

Though she is quick and agile, I'm bigger, and rapidly catching up with her. I manage to herd her into another corner, where she crouches, clutching the meat.

I'm not giving her the chance to run, this time. I dive in, pinning her to the wall by her neck.

"Just who do you think you are?" I snap, and I feel her swallow a few times.

When I expect an answer, though, perhaps her name, or tears, she just makes a strangled, angry noise. Wondering if I am choking her, I relax my grip.

She bites me, and as I let go, she drops the meat and runs. I don't bother trying to catch her. My finger hurts. She bit hard enough to leave tooth marks, but didn't break the skin.

Lucky. Human bites are prone to infection, or so I've heard.

I go to wash off the meat in our sink, fed by a little pump. It doesn't seem very damaged. To even out the texture, I pull out a mallet and carefully pound the meat to the same consistency all over. It looks okay, so I take it back into the freezer, which isn't really all that frozen.

The butcher shop's walk in freezer is notoriously unreliable. It's a little chilly inside, but all the meat has thawed… of course. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to make such a dent in the steak.

I walk over to the metal drawers where we keep the pre-cut steaks, and the top one is ajar. Opening it up to put the steak back in, I notice that the one below it has chunks torn off, and I curse under my breath.

The little girl was smarter than I reckoned. She had masked a smaller crime with a big one, probably carrying out the pieces she tore off in her pockets. My guess is that she was hoping not to be caught, but, if she was, she planned to turn over the bigger steak, and be gone by the time the others were noticed.

Must be why she didn't tell me her name.

No matter.

I'll find her, someday. District Ten is very large, but it's not like there's anywhere to run.

Carefully, I remove the damaged piece, and return the stolen steak to its original location. I close the drawer, and the freezer door, behind me.

I could be chasing her. But, instead, I deftly remove the evidence of the steak's mistreatment, and shape it into a standard shape again. The owner of the shop won't notice. He's almost too old to work at all, and all he really does is present a face for the business.

'Auroch Vachel' is too dangerous to sell meat. But 'Old Man Carson'? Now there's a trustworthy butcher if I ever saw one!

The steak reshaped, I return it to the freezer, and bring out a ham that I've been meaning to clean up and cut. Good sliced ham is valuable, and brings in a good price.

Once I've gotten into a rhythm, it's easier to think. I wonder why I'm not more… upset by the theft. I decide that, though the answer is cliché, it's the truth. I don't get mad, I get even.

That extends to little girls as well as anyone else in existence. You don't try to pull one over me.

Dangerous is definitely the right word.

Ham takes time, but I finish with relative speed, satisfied by the paper-thin slices that remain. I am an expert at chopping meat. After three years of it on a daily basis, I should be.

The ham goes in the freezer, and I carefully fix the lock on the door. The little girl didn't do too much damage to it, and it's relatively easy.

Carson never shows up. I barely notice.

I'll go to the reaping without him, and without leaving a note. He'll be unhappy. But he won't say anything.

No one ever does.

**-x**

**Back on track, more or less. I am so flipping close! :D**

**Gah, so happy! Only four more!**

**14100/50000**

_This update's question_: Do you know what an aurochs is? First to tell me in a review will get to send a key gift to their character of choice.


	20. Lissom, District Ten

**Lissom Henley**

We're not really all that poor. Okay, we are. And it fails. But what can I do about it? Most places don't want a tiny thirteen where there are fifty brawny eighteens just begging for the job.

So really, the only way to do it is to steal. They had a defense for that, in America. Or, early Panem, I guess. But that's what they called it. America. If your family was going to starve, they couldn't arrest you for stealing food. I don't remember what it was called, but those must have been good times. I bet no one was ever hungry.

Not like I am, at least.

To make ends meet, my dad kind of steals food too. He hurt his back a long time ago, and now he's having a hard time finding work. And he only takes from the merchants, the people who have so much food they throw it away. They're actually _allowed_ to do that.

I hate the merchants. So I steal from them, too. Not for the same reasons my dad does, but because I want to get them back, for not hiring him. For not hiring me. For saying I'm too small to work.

They never suspect me. An advantage and a disadvantage for me is whatever's off about my body. I haven't grown for a long time, which wouldn't be too weird on its own. But even on the good days, when dad brings home fresh bread and meat, and I can swipe a can of beans, the feast doesn't have much effect on me.

I don't go hungry, and I don't starve. But I look like a seven year old who's been through a famine.

The pain hasn't bothered me for a long time, though it did at the beginning. I was pretty sick for a few days as a seven, and it's like I haven't really gotten better since then. I don't throw up, or cough, but I hurt, all through my stomach. And I have some trouble with the bathroom, though I'd never tell anyone.

People would notice something was strange if I walked hunched over, which I really want to do when my stomach hurts. So I don't. My parents would worry themselves sick if I told them how little of my food actually seems to digest. They'd bring me to a fancy merchant doctor who wouldn't do anything but take our money. So I don't let them know.

My parents love me, and I love them. So I won't let them worry about me. I'm fine.

I wake up in a little heap of covers on my pallet, on the left side of the bedroom. My parents are sleeping peacefully, and I know not to disturb them. We ate the last of the bread dad got last night, so all we have in the kitchen is an open can of beans and fatty piece of leftover meat.

Silently, I pad into the only other room of the house, where we have three decrepit old chairs, a table, a hearth, and a beat-up counter where we keep our food.

Plugging my nose, I swallow the meat without chewing too much. It still slides down my throat in a slimy manner, and almost makes me throw it back up. My stomach is already hurting, and, because no one can see, me, I sit in my chair and hug my knees to my chest.

It releases a little pain, but I know I'll hurt again once I stand up. I have to, though. After mom and dad eat the beans, we won't have any food.

Reaping day may bring out the best in some people, but no one who knows my family will be making any donations of food. They know what we do, and they know it is necessary, but they don't have to like it.

Steeling myself, I stand up, ignoring the ache that spontaneously returns. I breathe, slowly, and I relax. I am a _liquid_, and liquids don't feel pain. They flow.

I try to glide out of the room, pretending to be water spilled out of a pitcher, but I nearly trip over our threadbare rug. Liquids don't have eyes, but Lissoms do. _And they need to open them once in a while_, I remind myself.

Visualizing things has never helped me very much, but people seem to think it should. It's a little annoying, but I try, sometimes, just to see if anything's changed. This time, it hasn't.

Instead, I try to think about where I'm going. It's a very long walk to the merchants' part of the district, so I'll need something to keep my mind off the way my footsteps make my pain intensify.

Okay… where to go. Merchants. Right. But which one? I know that part of town better than anyone as far away as me has a right to. Yesterday, I hit a little canned goods store close to the edge of town. I shouldn't go there again, as I might be recognized.

My head knows this is a good idea, but my stomach disagrees vehemently. It doesn't want me to walk any farther than I have to.

I decide on the block over from there. Still in the food section of town, but fresher. Closer to the officials' houses, and to the apartments that merchants' kids' move into once they graduate. Almost as sparse as our family's home. But they move out faster.

The deli… the fruit shop… the butcher… and then the market.

I rule out the market, as I always do. Too many people who might notice a stealthy little girl with sticky fingers.

The deli is a bit more upper-class. Relatively empty, though the food is on the other side of glass. It takes a distraction to get in there, and I'm not the best at those. I'm not ruling it out as an option, though.

As for the fruit shop, I simply don't feel like fruit. I want something with substance, and my stomach concurs.

Probably the deli. Mm. Meat. But difficult to achieve. The butcher has the raw stuff, but it's usually an easier place to go unnoticed at. If you can get the old man to take you to the freezer, it's easy enough to grab a pocketful of ham while he shows you the steaks. I could never pull off a steak, and I know it.

But could I get part of one? Steak would be delicious. Head and shoulders above my gristly breakfast, which might have been beef… once. I try to think of how slight of hand could help me. It's my only marketable skill: speed. I have fast hands, fast feet. I'm quick and light and maneuverable.

And I know how to use this to my advantage.

Lesson one is never look at what you're taking. Of course, scope it out before you grab it. But people look at what you're looking at. Stare at your other hand, and they'll look too.

Lesson two is to camouflage a smaller move with a bigger one. If you're going to snatch an apple off the counter, redirect attention by animatedly moving your other arm. People focus on the most dramatic sight. As long as you don't call attention to what you're really doing, they won't notice.

Lesson three is to know when you're caught. And that goes without saying. Once someone sees you palming an apple, you either apologize and deny it, or drop it and run.

I've only needed lesson three a few times. But it's kept me out of trouble more than once.

My feet stop on their own accord, and I realize that I am standing outside of the deli. There's a tall woman behind the counter- probably still their from the night shift. The deli always has people in it, even if it's only a tired employee.

No, I don't want ham _that _much.

Steak it is.

I pull a tiny, jagged-edged little saw from the pocket of my faded-white pants, and walk quietly next door, to the empty butcher shop. The place makes me nervous, so I'm on edge, and my pain goes ignored.

When I'm working, I never feel it.

I jimmy the little blade around in the keyhole, and the cheap lock clicks open. I'm leaning in too hard on the door, though, and a nail holding the hinge in place rips out. It's not used to such abuse.

Under my breath, I mutter a word my parents probably wouldn't want me to know. But I slip in, closing the door as well as I can. It's dark inside, with only a few windows that let the grey morning light seep in.

Carefully, I navigate the veritable maze of chopping blocks, tables, and meat hangers. I shudder at every rusty, blood-stained hook. They remind me of some past nightmare.

At the back lies a walk in freezer, which I remember from the last time I was in the butcher shop. Then, though, my goal had been a handful of ground beef while Mr. Carson wasn't looking. The empty shop seems much more ominous than it did then

I ease the door open, and the air inside is much warmer than a freezer ought to be. I'm still on guard, and I edge over to a little drawer set. Inside, a pile of steaks rest one on top of the other.

The first one on top, I grab. But as a precaution, I saw off a few chunks of the next one down, sticking them into my tinfoil-lined pocket. I carefully close the top drawer, and ease towards the fridge door, my footsteps light and barely audible, though the meat makes my perfect balance a little… less perfect.

My breath sounds loud, even to me, and I try to quiet my ragged gasps. My stomach hurts, but I tune it out.

I hear a noise at the door, and, praying for it to be the wind, I walk even more quietly, though I can do nothing about my breathing. I hope they won't notice. I hope I can slip out behind them.

Now, it is abundantly clear that there is someone else in the shop, and it isn't stooped little Mr. Carson. He- I think the heavy footsteps must be a he- is too stealthy, too cautious, too quick.

He knows I am in here. And he is big, very big.

With a start, I remember the assistant… Eric. Aaron. Whatever his name is. A towering mass of coiled muscle. I heard someone at the fruit store mention him, and I've seen him in passing.

I hope it isn't the butcher assistant, but I somehow know it is.

Even so, I'm not sure why I don't follow lesson number three and make a run for it. Probably because I've already made so many stupid mistakes, and I'm pretty sure another can't hurt me.

Underneath the big steak, I grip my serrated little saw. It's too dull to be of much use, but maybe, at the right angle, I could surprise him, gouge him, and run.

I realize that I am contemplating a much more serious crime than theft, and I hope it won't come to that. But I will not let myself be caught.

A muted thump alerts me to his proximity. My pursuer is close. I stop moving, and I stop breathing. The ache in my stomach returns full-force, and I turn to face whoever it is, angry. At myself, for being stupid, and him, for catching me at it.

There are a few more steps, and there he is. Definitely him. Brooding, dark, and even bigger than I remember, as I am hunched over in pain. I bare my teeth at him, and make a strangled noise, like the cornered, wounded animal that I am.

"Drop the meat," he says, his voice gravelly and deep. I don't know why I am not obeying. He holds a huge butcher knife loosely in one hand, and he is blocking my means of escape. "Drop it and leave."

I shift my weight backwards, weighing my options. My little lock picking knife will be of no use against this giant. I consider growling again. Maybe he'll leave me alone if he thinks I'm crazy.

"Put it down. You'll be safe if you put it down."

My eyes narrow, and I decide on a risky, absolutely moronic plan of escape. Slowly, I lower the meat, as if to put it down. He watches me, and I force myself to look at the meat instead of in the direction I plan to escape. He won't be expecting it. Lesson number one.

With a start, I propel myself forward, as fast as I've ever run. I manage to doge his legs and duck his huge arms, but I'm almost as lost as before. The butcher shop is very large, and my feet, pounding the floor, have no idea where to run.

I plan as I go. Turn this, dodge that, keep a hold on the meat. The stupid meat that I'm risking my life for…

The thought districts me, and I find myself in another corner.

Butcher, as I'm calling him in my head, is fast. He's dropped the knife, but as I turn towards him, he puts on a burst of speed and pins me against the wall.

Crap, crap, crap. There's no time to censor my thoughts. My eyes dart wildly, but I don't let go of the stupid, stupid meat.

"Just who do you think you are?" he growls, and I make an awful noise in reply, and swallow a few times. My throat hurts.

He seems to notice, because he relaxes his grip a bit, not wanting to kill me. Hopefully. I arch my back, and with the little wiggle room I have, I angle my face down and bite his finger.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. He lets go. I run, dropping the big piece of meat that slows me down, fro the door, adrenaline pumping.

I don't stop running for a long time, until I am far, far away from the butcher shop, and my stomach is threatening to burst from my torso. I nearly collapse in a sobbing, ragged, violently painful heap.

My pocket bulges with meat. But I will not be going back to that butcher shop, nor will I be seeing Butcher again. For now, though, I'm safe. Carefully, I massage my tender, sore throat. There will be a bruise.

Safe. I'm safe. I have the meat, and I'm safe. I can breathe easy. Safe, safe, safe.

And then I remember the reaping.

**-x**

**Poor thing.**

**Skywriter9 and I have started the Winter 2010 Hunger Games Fanfiction Awards! Check out my forums, where you can nominate your favorite stories in all sorts of categories, even be nominated yourself! It's great fun, and you can get to know other members of the fandom. I hope to see you there. :)**

**Congratulations to LittleSchemer! There will be a point in the story when two characters are in dire distress. It will be her who picks which one gets a potentially lifesaving gift.**

**16800/50000**

_This update's question_: If you were starving in Panem, would you consider turning to crime?


	21. Pasque, District Eleven

**Pasque Lunette**

I already know I'm screwed. And it's not even my fault. Flax, District Eleven's resident turncoat, and my no-longer-friend, has sealed my fate.

There's nothing to do, on the dreary, wet morning of the reaping. Nothing to do but wait, knowing that I'm going to die. Nothing to do but remember.

"What are we doing again?" I asked, following him doggedly around a crypt.

Of course, it was light out. Golden summer painted the cemetery. Even Flax wasn't stupid enough to try something illegal- if only trespassing- at night. They double the guard around that gate at night.

He wanted to see what was inside. And I wanted him to stop bugging me.

I don't think it was an honest desire. More of a challenge to him, to beat the Peacekeepers, for once. Like a lunatic, I had agreed to help him.

"We're going to find out what's important enough to keep a Peacekeeper stationed outside," he reminded me.

"Oh, right," I sighed. "For a second there, I thought we had some sane reason."

"Because it's there!" he insisted.

I trudged after him, and we quietly slipped behind the guardhouse, where Peacekeepers often take their breaks. A tall chain link fence, disguised by some sort of vine growing on it, blocked us.

"It's only about eight feet. I'll give you a boost, and then you help me over. You're better at climbing, anyway."

We must have made quite a sight. I'm the tall, wiry one, and while Flax is a respectable height as well, he is muscle-bound and tough.

With a grunt, I pulled myself over. I was about to start helping him up through the holes in the fence when we heard the footsteps, heavy, pounding. Our eyes met through the fence, and we both bolted in opposite directions.

I never did see that Peacekeeper, but I heard him. For nearly fifteen minutes, he stood on the other side of the fence, while I hoped against hope that he would not find Flax, and thanked myself again and again for wearing earth-toned clothes.

As he left, I slowly inched into a standing position, surveying the inside of the tall fence. There was a thick row of trees completely obscuring my view of the gate, and I figured that the chain fence must have been the second precaution, Peacekeepers being the first, against anyone getting in.

Normally, I am a very, very careful person. I jump at the slightest sound, and I am always on edge. I work in the orchard, at the base of the tree. I haven't had a fruit fall on me since the day I started.

Something reckless in me still wanted to see what merited such relatively cheap, but difficult to bypass guards.

District Eleven is notoriously underfunded, which would explain the poor fencing. We have more Peacekeepers than we know what to do with, because of our population, which explains the guards. And, obviously, we've got plenty of trees. But the ones growing before me were only about twenty-five, maybe thirty at most, years old.

And I know trees.

This, whatever it was, had been here a long time. But it had to be guarded, because… it was dangerous? No, the trees couldn't serve as a prison, just as camouflage.

Something that couldn't be removed, though the Capitol dearly wanted it to be. That would be it.

I felt a sinking feeling. Twenty-five years ago… that would be the rebellion, wouldn't it?

Now I had to go through. My curiosity was provoked, and I simply had to see.

The trees barely rustled as I pushed my way through. As I've said before, I know trees. Almost silent, I slipped through, to find myself facing another wall of trees. Just behind it, I could hear the Peacekeeper at the gate.

So there was nothing.

No, I had spoke too soon. Nestled in the tall grass, no doubt embedded in the bedrock, was a roughly polished, faded grey stone. A headstone, I realized with a jolt. And not a fancy one. It had obviously been tampered with, but I recognized the rock as one prized for its resilience.

Fitting, considering the painstakingly etched name, that had someone had obviously tried to rub out.

Rue.

Perhaps it had been a monument. But they had destroyed those. This one must have been her gravestone.

I was standing on a dead little girl…

"Pasque!" a harsh whisper from behind me called. "Pasque! It's Flax!"

Too late, I hushed him. The Peacekeeper standing guard at the gate, on the opposite side of the stand of trees in front of me, stirred. I heard the chink of a key in the lock.

Hoping against hope that it was not Boise, the Head Peacekeeper who would violently express his distaste for his job on occasion, I bolted for the trees, in the direction of Flax's voice.

"Pasque!" he called again, a little more frantically, I thought.

Behind me, the gate clanged open. I burst through the trees, running for the fence.

I stopped dead, three feet from my point of entrance, pulling aside an obstructive branch.

There was Flax, a Peacekeeper's gun to his head.

I will never forgive him for what he did, but I can understand it. When you have Severus Boise's gun to your head, I suppose lies in self defense come easily. Even when they condemn your best friend, the idiot who actually _cared_ about you, where your family didn't.

There wasn't much they could do to me, at least, not without revealing the reason for my hanging. But Boise has an intelligent streak as well as a cruel one- unique for a Peacekeeper shipped in from District Two.

He is not Head Peacekeeper without a reason. Though he started out as a District Two whose wife divorced him and family cast him out, (though I've only heard this) and he signed up as a Peacekeeper to pay off debt, he is smart and brutal, a winning combination in the eyes of the Capitol.

President Norris sees District Eleven as being more important to control, because of our status as 'food-suppliers' and the fact that we have rebelled before. I have no doubt that, if Boise and Norris have ever met, they really hit it off. As alike as seeds in a pear, the two of them.

And I also have no doubt that, the second he figured that my public execution would not be to his advantage, he arranged for a few extra Tessera in my name. I'm eighteen, after all- it's his last chance.

If that doesn't work, it'll be Elfin, or Bluit, or Alder. Better that it's me than any of my little siblings, though.

I can already see my execution scene. Instead of crowds gathering in the square, prodded by Peacekeepers, standing around a gallows, it'll be a stage. And the one who reads my sentence will be Seraph Carmine, in her impossibly high heels and tiny, tiny clothing.

With the quell, I wonder what she'll be there for. Probably to keep the tributes from bolting from the stage… or isn't that the Peacekeeper's job?

For show, then.

Groaning, I pull myself out of bed. I ache all over… my muscles are sore from locking and unlocking all through my nightmarish attempts at sleeping. There's not much of a point to feeling good, though… I'm entertainment. That's all. A good show for the Capitol.

I wonder if I should be scared. No, they can't do anything worse than kill me. And there's always suicide.

By now, I'm used to such dark thoughts. It's been hard to concentrate on work, wondering how I'm going to die. The trees keep me sane. They only change slowly… they can't offer their condolences… they can't stutter half-apologies that mean nothing in the end.

I don't mind working in the orchard.

They're going to take even that away from me. Typically. They're taking my life, my family, even the most basic of my enjoyments. I might kill myself, but then thy'd take someone in my place.

So I'm stuck.

The reluctant martyr.

**-x**

**My computer ate this chapter once, and GAHHH it angered me. I'm so flipping close to the games (or, at least, the pre-games) and I'm behind, and ARGGH.**

**Anyway, go check out the Winter 2010 Hunger Games Fanfiction Awards forum! It's as fun as multiple barrels of monkeys!**

**18500/50000**

_This update's question_: If you could meet one character I've introduced so far to a dinner party, who would it be?


	22. Skiff, District Eleven

**Skiff Child**

I'm not exactly your typical District Eleven. I don't do any work involving agriculture, unless, of course, you count shoemaking. But why would you? I don't worship Rue and Seeder and Chaff. They're the past, and I'd rather live in the present.

My feelings on the Hunger Games, however, are no different from anybody else's. I don't like them. But I keep my head down, take out as many Tessarae as I need to eat, and watch what I have to.

What I see, I don't like.

There isn't much room in my life for friends, or anything, really. I don't have many prospects besides shoemaking. It's a laughable job, but, apparently, someone has to do it. I've learned that, watching my dad work himself into the ground trying to forget my mom's death.

It wasn't her fault. She should never have been doing anything more difficult than walking from room to room. She was pregnant. I was going to have a sister. What possessed her to do anything as strenuous as taking on another job?

Of course, the baby. Dad's business wasn't doing so well, and there was going to be another mouth to feed. But joining in the harvest two months before you're going to have a baby…

She shouldn't be dead. If I ever get married, my wife is not going to have to work. To many people- good people- die in the fields. From exhaustion, heat, and their own sheer stubbornness. I can't make myself see two deaths a year as something truly heinous when we lose hundreds every few months.

Evil starts at home. And while the games are certainly awful, they are temporary, and quick. And they give you a chance, at least. Husk Dempsey, last year, managed to keep himself alive.

Everyone gets a shot at it. I may not quite be fifteen, but, heck, even_ I_ would have some ghost of a possibility.

You don't get that, working in the fields.

Shoemaker may not be the best occupation, but I have the right hands for it. With hard work, I could eke out a living from something so survivable. Monotonous, but I'd be alive. I could provide for a wife and a kid, and keep them from ever having to go through the loss of a parent, or spouse.

My life seems to be laid out before me. I doubt I have many surprises left.

This year, District Eleven is at a distinct disadvantage, what with the quell. We're surpassed in size only by District Four, and we are equal to the other Career districts. Possibly a little smaller than Two.

I don't like it, how many people we stand to lose. But what is it, really? They'll die faster than they would of starvation or overwork. It sounds cold, but it's true.

Breakfast this morning will be nice, something I owe to my new best friend, Husk Dempsey. Fewer people starved over the last year than in a long time. Thanks to him, finally, there's been almost enough food to go around.

"Skiff, get up," my dad's voice calls, and, surprisingly awake, I roll out of bed.

"Coming, dad!"

I'm lucky enough to have my own, closet-sized bedroom. The walls are bare and brown, but there's just enough room for my pallet and I have a little privacy. The door scrapes my bed as it opens, but no one ever said a bedroom had to be big.

Dad is already working on a black Peacekeeper boot in the living room, while a cut-up apple simmers over the hearth in what I assume is butter.

"Smells good," I say, and he mumbles something in reply.

Checking on the apples, I flip them over and, after a few minutes, when they turn golden brown around the edges, I add a little of the precious cinnamon from a little clay bot.

"Soup's on," I tell him, and he puts the boot down, standing up to join me at our little table.

"I've finished mending the pair of boots. If you could give them a good polish before you go out," he says, gesturing widely, "wherever it is you're planning to go, then I can return them before the reaping."

I nod assent, and he starts eating.

"What's our day look like?" I ask after a little while.

He shrugs noncommitally. Dad is not one for descisiveness. Or eloquence.

"Just the reaping. 'nless you have plans."

"No, I'll just get your boots polished and head out."

"Where to?" he asks, playing at being the responsible father. I shake my head and shrug. "You've got to have some idea."

"I'm travelling with the wind. And possibly heading by the market," I sigh.

Satified, he puts down his fork and gives me a nod. Good parenting aside, he is satisfied with my answer.

"Any money?" he asks, surprising me by continuing the pretense of a conversation.

"Just window shopping."

Before he can answer, I stand, push in my chair, and bring my dishes to the kitchen. The boots are disgusting. Standing around pretending to be useful must be hard on Peacekeepers' feet. Unless you happen to be our dear Head Peacekeeper Boise, whose boots accumulate a generous amount of blood after the ever-common public whippings, there's really no excuse for the grass, pebbles, and general filth on the boots.

My mom always called my hands 'nimble'. Most of my friends referred to them as 'girly', but I always preferred her term. I make short work of the boots, polishing them up to a nice, even black.

"Good work," dad says gruffly, and I jump up with a start. He's been watching me, after putting away his own dishes.

"Uh, thanks," I mumble.

He hands me a few coins, which surprises me. It's enough for a piece of fruit, or maybe a handful of nuts.

"Buy yourself something." He pats me on the back awkwardly.

I straighten up, offering him a small smile.

"Thanks again, dad. I'll see you after the reaping."

Outside, people are already going about their business. Most of District Eleven looks at least similar to me- dark skinned, brown eyed, and downtrodden to an extreme. A few young people struggle under the weight of some fruit baskets, walking from the direction of the orchard. Their black, straight hair is dull, and their eyes are hungry.

A particularly gaunt girl, only a few years my senior, trips on a broken stretch of pavement. She is sent sprawling, most of the oranges on her back scattering to the ground. She drags herself to her feet, franticly collecting the fruit around her feet.

I find myself diving in and helping her, against my better judgement.

Heavy footsteps approach, and I dump an armful of fruit into her basket only to look up at the huge black boots and white uniform of a Peacekeeper. Boise, of course, because it simply could not be anyone else. Not today.

"Civil disturbance," he says quietly, looking us up and down. "And on reaping day, too? You children should be at home, celebrating with your parents."

"Uh..." I stutter franticly, the girl beside me gone pale with fear, "You see, Mr. Boise, sir, I was just helping her... she tripped... it was my fault... she's just a girl, sir!"

"No need for defensiveness," he intones smoothly, "not on a day like today. And, she is, after all, a girl, as you have pointed out."

"Yes, yes!" I say quickly, handing her the last of the fruit, and trying to somehow communicate that she needs to run.

"Really, I wouldn't worry about it..." he pauses, "Skiff. That is your name, correct? Your father does my boots. She'll be fine, of course. If I were you, I would think, rather, of all the girls younger than her... eligible today."

I shouldn't have said anything. I should have run. He's figured me out.

"Yes, sir," I say. "I will, sir."

"You ought to." He walks away, crunching gravel as he goes. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

The girl hits me.

"Hey!" I yelp, "I just saved you!"

"There is a very fine line between chivalry and chauvinism! I was fine, and now you're screwed! I can see it in your eyes! How am I supposed to live with that?"

"What?" I stutter, stepping back as she hauls herself to her feet. "No you weren't! He might have killed you!"

She snorts, and looks like she might hit me again. I step out of range instinctively.

"He fell for it, and so did you. You're all so stupid, and now I've got your death on my hands!"

"Hey, I don't even know you, okay? Helping you was the right thing to do! You're not responsible for my death or whatever. I don't even know your name!" I say indignantly.

"I'm Anemone. I'll hit you again if you call me anything else. Okay? But I just want you to go away."

"Fine, Anen- uh, Amenome."

She kicks my shin hard enough to make me double over in pain.

"It's a hard name, okay?" I yell after her retreating form as she tries to catch up with the rest of the fruit-carrying teens.

I hate girls. If anyone ever deserved the Hunger Games, it's that one.

She'd probably die.

I don't want that. I don't want anyone to die, and, as irritating as they often are, I especially don't want any girls to. But it happens every year, and there's nothing I can do, and I can still hear everyone's favorite Head Peacekeeper's voice...

_"Younger than her... eligible today."_

So many children.

At the market, I buy a little orange and peel it slowly. I think I know what I have to do.

**-x**

**I hate reapings, and I hate computers. I just switched laptops again, and this was lost in the move. Apologies.**

**I just want to start the games... -.-**

**20400/50000**

_This update's question:_ How many chapters of pre games stuff would you like to see?


	23. Sorrel, District Eleven

**Sorrel Primrose**

I think I need to become a pre-grade teacher. I mean, I've certainly got the name for it. What little kid wouldn't want a 'Ms. Primrose'?

My pre-grade teacher was Mrs. Harridan. She didn't like me, and by that, I mean at _all. _I still haven't quite gotten over that. Adults tend to like me, in that I have a bit of a gift for knowing exactly what to say to them. Not so much people my own age. But I figure I'd rather have a job later and be friendless now than sit with people now and be jobless when I turn eighteen.

Another thing, I don't exactly have a house. But that's something I learned to deal with a long time ago, after my mom went missing and my dad rather mistakenly tried to track her down. I've learned that as long as I show up at school fully clothed and finish my work, no one asks questions and I don't get sent to a community home. This is where my charisma comes in- when the few suspicious teachers ask after my parents. And I can't really explain that I haven't seen them since two years ago, just a month after my thirteenth birthday, when my dad managed to climb the perpetually turned-off fence.

My parents really loved each other. I think he went a little bit crazy when he discovered her missing. I was never really as important to him as she was. More like a packaged deal. Without her, I wasn't really much of his daughter.

Luckily, my teachers never seem to collaborate to discover that, whenever they want to meet with my parents, my mother is ill, or the both of them are working extra in the orchard. They trust me enough not to ask Peacekeepers whether my father was _really_ recuperating from an undeserved blow by Severus Boise. They seem to just assume that I come from an exceedingly unlucky household. I support that belief as much as possible.

Part of my inherent trustworthy-ness must come from my appearance. I have a very young face, and, though I am over a month into fifteen, I could easily pass for twelve. I'll probably look like a child until the day I die. Maybe it will help me identify with pre-grades?

I certainly don't look my best waking up. I sleep on a makeshift straw pallet behind a house in Victor's Village most nights. I had to relocate it when Husk won last year, but I think he's seen me in the neighborhood. Husk doesn't scare me much, though I suppose he should. He's much bigger than I am, and he was never really remorseful about killing all those people… mostly Careers, or so I've heard.

At the very end of the games, which I watched out in the square, his face was completely unreadable. Facing off with a large Career, with only a pair of sharpened ladies shoes against his opponent's wildly swinging wide-buckled belt, he was downright calm.

Another advantage of homelessness is that there's no one to tell me to tune in to the Hunger Games. If I can maneuver my way out of areas where they are being shown, I don't have to watch. You'd think they would be inescapable, me making my home where I do, but District Eleven has only two victors. There's Husk, of course, and then Azalea, who won three years after the Great Rebellion. She remembers it all, I'm sure, but she went mute shortly after winning.

The quiet of the morning is lost on me as I stretch, cover my pallet with a layer of leaves, and rake some dirt off my face. Mornings like this, I miss our old house with its clean bed and easy access to a well. Instead, I grit my teeth, brush a few stray twigs from my clothes, and lope out of the huge house's back yard.

No one is out on the street- the victors must still be sleeping. I sit at a rocking chair on the porch to the house I use. Though I can't gain entry, I enjoy the amenities while I can.

It's an off-day from school, so I have no concerns. One of my teachers has invited me for dinner, so that will be my food for the day. My parents will, of course, be delayed by a mess in the kitchen, and will decide to eat at home.

I've learned to stuff myself while I can. Last night I managed to finagle some bread from a sympathetic vendor by falling and skinning my knee in front of her stall, so I'm not all that hungry. Perhaps I'll try the same trick on another side of town. The scrape still looks fresh, and I've kept it clean.

My first stop will be at the pump by the entrance to Victor's village. It's more of an open arch then a gate, but I am always careful when walking in. You never know when someone will be watching. As someone is now, by the movement to my left. I turn sharply, with a little gasp.

Husk has left his house across the street, and, almost silently, made his way to the steps of the porch.

With a start, I am on my feet, ready to start explaining. What do I know of him? He turned sixteen shortly after his games… his parents are dead, or at least gone, like mine. Um… his house is blue with white trim.

He's killed someone with a pair of shoes before.

Surprising me further, he is the first to speak.

"So, you're the one who's been living back here," he states matter-of-factly. I notice that he is not holding any sort of weapon. Luckily, I have never been one to lose the power of speech in surprise.

"Temporary arrangement," I explain with a small smile, hoping to appeal to his better nature. Humor tends to loosen people up.

"So I've seen. How long?"

I sigh at the question.

"Nearly two years now," I say, though I suddenly remember my cover. Just waking up has made me dull. "I don't get along much with my parents. But I check in occasionally."

He looks me up and down.

"No you don't."

This is what I mean about not being able to convince anyone of my own age anything. While I am an expert at the adult mentality, I am not fooling any of my classmates. Or, apparently, Husk. I have overestimated his age, as I am sure he has underestimated mine.

"Relax. I'm not wearing shoes," he deadpans. I check, and he is, in fact, barefoot.

Involuntarily, I sigh with relief. And immediately begin to think myself out of the situation. I'll have to move again, which will not be fun. Victor's Village is a quiet, comfortable place for a pallet, and I'll definitely have to relocate in a different part of the district.

"I only saw the last of the games," I say, too wrapped up in thought to consider my words. "You're clever."

"Had to be. I would assume that you are, too."

Absentmindedly, I nod.

"Where are your parents, really?" he asks.

"Not dead," I say, because I am sure they aren't. I don't believe for a second that my mom actually escaped over the fence, but I still entertain the belief that my dad did, and my mom is somewhere in the district with whoever she left us for.

His eyebrows go up. He doesn't believe me.

"You really don't believe that."

"Being a victor doesn't give you a license to be a jerk," I snap. He's hit something of a sore spot with me. A big one.

"You'd be surprised," he says. "Being an orphan doesn't give you license to be one, either."

"I am not!"

"Sure, sure," he continues. "And you're living behind an abandoned house on your own accord."

"So what if I am!"

"Look, you've been coming and going for months. Believe me, anyone who had a home to go back to would have quit in a week."

"And how would you know?" I cry, wanting nothing more than to run home. But then I remember that I don't really have one. I haven't for a long time. Sometimes the years feel like all of my life, and my parent feel like memories. But right now, it feels like a few days ago that I took all the food in the house and ran.

"I wish I could," he says quietly. And my mind is left whirring away. What should I do? I'm fifteen, an aspiring pre-grade teacher, a very good liar. A runaway.

He seems to make up his mind about something.

"Look, come in. Get yourself cleaned up and eat something. I could use company today anyways."

I follow him, if for nothing else but the offer of being clean. I don't really have much to lose. And I'm still not scared of him.

Though I've lived in Victor's Village for nearly a year, I'm still shocked by how big the inside of Husk's house is. It's not a shock being inside, as I spend a fair amount of my waking hours in school. But everything is so… nice.

"There's a shower upstairs. You can borrow some clothes. Most of my stuff is pretty unisex, anyway."

"Umm… thanks, Husk," I say, just feeling tired. It's already been a much more eventful day than normal, and I'm absolutely worn out.

"I'm still not used to people knowing my name," he says ruefully. "Doubt I'll ever be. There are towels in the bathroom."

How long has it been since I've used a towel? I bathe in well water when I really need to, often enough to stay clean and look cared for. I run errands for soap vendors and cloth salespeople when I need anything, but towels have never really been necessary.

"Thanks again. I'm Sorrel."

He nods rather politely, and walks to the kitchen. It occurs to me that this could have ended very badly- I am luckier than I know. But that thought is lost as I shower in hot water for the first time in years.

All his clothes hang off me, but I'm in no place to complain. Victors are known for reclusiveness. I wonder what lead him to actually talk to me. Loneliness, I assume. This is a big house. I stave off depression over my parents by surviving on a day-to-day basis, but Husk spends so much time alone. His needs are met for him.

I doubt I could live like him- without family, without anything at all to do. But he seems like a good person, leaving me with the question of how he managed to survive even the bloodbath. Even a person like me, used to surviving, has a low chance of making it. And to the best of my knowledge, he was better off than most.

"Now, Sorrel, I would appreciate some straight answers," he says, in the kitchen, handing me a glass of water and an apple. "Why are you in Victor's Village?"

"It's only fair, I guess," I say, shrugging. Telling the truth is not a strategy I use often. "My parents ran away, and I ran, too. It's not so bad. I'm good at getting what I need."

"And you knew perfectly well that your neighbors were the murderous type?" he asks sarcastically.

"No worse than the Peacekeepers."

At that, he nods ruefully.

"That's the truth. Why not a community home?"

"Because my parents aren't dead. That's where orphans go," I say sharply. That's another sensitive subject, though I owe him.

"You've managed for this long on your own?"

I hate to admit that I am not self sufficient, but the true answer is that no, I haven't. I need people to live. I need my teachers, and the stall owners, and the marketplace's residents. Even the Peacekeepers. They just don't know how much I do.

"Sort of," I answer.

"Then it's a shame I finally caught you today," he says. "I'm shipping back to the Capitol after the reaping."

"Oh," I say, wanting to change the subject. "So you've met the President, then? Is he like they say?"

"Exactly. Everyone's terrified of him and his nostalgia for the Pre-Panem days. You know all the interesting arenas? The mall and the city and so on? All his ideas."

I nod, though I don't really understand what he's saying.

"He's not nearly as… evil… as the last guy. Very different. He looks like he could have won the games himself, you know?"

Again, I nod. He seems satisfied.

"I've wanted to talk to someone for so long. People treat me differently, now that I'm a victor. Everybody does. Some things I'm not allowed to say. It's like I'm an adult." He laughs. "Well, that's never going to happen. The day I turn mature, I'll kill myself. Not that I haven't yet considered it."

I'm more than a little taken aback by his rant. He has confirmed my suspicions about lonely victors and such, and made me feel rather guilty for even being intimidated by him. He's just a year older than me. If we were two normal kids, he would be platonically ignoring me, like most kids.

Then I remember all the people he's killed. And I give him a little smile. I've finished the apple and the water.

"Sorry, Husk. Life isn't fair, you know better than anyone."

"Maybe I'll look you up when I get back, Sorrel. You don't know how great it is to talk to a girl again."

_Maybe I'll see you again,_ I think, leaving his house with a goodbye and setting off for the square. _But to be honest, I hope not.  
_

**-x**

**YESSSSSSSSS!**

**-dances-**

**I'll be doing four pre-games chapters. I'm already half done with the chariot rides. They'll be up tomorrow.**

**23700/50000**

_This update's question_: Who do you think is going to win?


	24. Reaping

**Reaping**

On the same stage that had housed the Quarter Quell's reading, President Norris, clad in a starched white suit, delivered, yet again, the speech on Panem's history.

A few people watching noticed that the speech was almost exactly the same as the one delivered at the reading of the quell. Who would point it out, though? No one.

"The Hunger Games are a time to celebrate the Capitol's lenience," the President finished quietly. "You would all do well to be thankful for them."

A massive glass bowl filled with tiny paper slips sat beside him, too big for a table. Unruffled by its size, President Norris drew in his hand for the first slip.

"_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham_, District Seven!" he called, his rough voice carrying across the audience without the microphone's assistance.

Behind him, the huge TV screen zoomed in on the District Seven square, where a startled boy, at least sixteen, walked up to the stage beside the district's Mayor and the escort. His mouth settled into a hard line of determination.

"Volunteers?" the President asked.

The camera panned through the silent crowd, and the President reached in for the next slip.

"Screne Mithon, District Three!" was called next.

A quavering girl stumbled onto the stage, though she barely made it before a voice from the audience volunteered. Her expression melted, first into relief, then to utter disbelief.

"And what is your name, young man?" the delighted escort asked, as Peacekeepers escorted Screne off the stage.

"_Lectic Riggs_," he said, his voice more convinced than his face.

The President smiled harshly, reaching for the next name.

"_Lucian Gray_, District Two!" he said, holding the slip aloft.

Behind him on the screen, a skinny boy took the stage, his face void of any emotion at all.

"Volunteers?" asked the President, though nothing but snickers was forthcoming from the crowd of District Twos.

The President drew another slip, and another.

No one volunteered for '_Pasque Lunette_, District Eleven!', who walked to the stage, resigned to his fate, or for '_Asha Woodlawn_, District Seven!', who looked as if she wanted to cry, but thought better of it.

'Carnefex Farraday, District Two!', a burly seventeen, lost the stage to '_Martial Sutter_', who was, if anything, even more intimidating.

'Poise DeLaurense, District One!', a tall, muscular fifteen, was replaced by '_Lycra Dietrich_.'

No one saw fit to volunteer for '_Auroch Vachel_, District Ten!' who was probably as big as Martial, and looked a heck of a lot smarter.

'_Chalice Patel_, District One!' went undisturbed as she walked to the stage, tears streaming down her face.

'_Gull Trillby_, District Four!' looked shocked as he was chosen and even more surprised when no one volunteered.

When 'Thistle Reese, District Eleven!' was called, the bone-skinny girl pleadingly looked out into the crowd. It didn't take long for '_Skiff Child_' to volunteer, looking thoroughly amazed with himself.

'_Rachel Goldberg_, District Six!' didn't flinch as she was called, but her disdainful expression fell as no one answered the President's call to volunteer.

"Catilina Mercado, District Two!" was replaced by '_Demetra Boise_', a satisfied smirk on the volunteer's face.

On the District Four stage, '_Rippel Clark_' volunteered for 'Neveah Jameson, District Four…'

-x-

With a click, Desdemona Wright turned off her television. She hated watching reapings, especially in real time. She sat on her velour couch for a minute or so, staring at the blank screen. When she flicked it beck on, however, she was not watching the reapings, but a recap.

Sighing contentedly, she leaned back, reading through the list of tributes, by district, with their odds predicted by the news anchors.

Diele Hobel, District One: 1-6

Lycra Dietrich, District One: 1-7

Chalice Patel, District One: 1-20

Martial Sutter, District Two: 1-5

Lucian Gray, District Two: 1-14

Demetra Boise, District Two: 1-6

Lectic Riggs, District Three: 1-12

Dylan Ahava, District Four: 1-6

Gull Trillby, District Four: 1-10

Rippel Clark, District Four: 1-7

Iezsa Monet, District Five: 1-22

Rachel Goldberg, District Six: 1-30

Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: 1-9

Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: 1-23

Holland Love, District Eight: 1-22

Perl Bolton, District Eight: 1-20

Tanner Faustus, District Nine: 1-9

Auroch Vachel, District Ten: 1-4

Lissom Henley, District Ten: 1-23

Pasque Lunette, District Eleven: 1-17

Skiff Child, District Eleven: 1-18

Sorrel Primrose, District Eleven: 1-19

Desdemona dutifully took notes on her favorites. Though she had never quite been one to support the underdog, the odds on some competitors were certainly tempting. She could put down a single credit on, say, Iezsa, and if she won, she would be up by 21.

That much money meant a lot to a university student, even one with as short an attention span as Desdemona.

Thinking for a second, and observing the names she had transcribed, Desdemona circled two. Demetra Boise and Holland Love had better be grateful.

**-x**

**Okay, sorry, I really had to write this. I'm halfway done with the chariots, but I decided that I needed a reaping scene.**

**Much love to everyone!**

_This update's question_: As a person from the Capitol, which of the tributes would you put money on?


	25. Chariots

**Lectic (D3)**

With only one person to fawn on, the stylists are going crazy. Veni has removed what little hair had grown since the last time I shaved my head, and doing so while chattering happily.

"-and you would not believe the way they're doing it! They moved Catilina, she's the other stylist, and they bumped her up to One! Just because they have an extra! Well, you're lucky they didn't take Pictor, he's better anyway," he prattles, rubbing some foul-smelling stuff on my scalp to keep my hair from growing back.

I don't mind too much. My mind is elsewhere, specifically, on the roof of the training center. I want to take a good look at the force fields first chance I get. I've only seen the truly dangerous ones before, and I'm looking forward to testing the relatively benevolent ones.

Besides, when my hair grows, it only gets in the way. You can't have long hair in District Three. The few people with naturally straight hair are in danger of catching it in machines. People like me with hair that has a mind of its own have the same problem, unless we braid it back like Screne does. I guess I would rather just go without the bother of hair for the last few days of my life.

Veni's nails are cold and metallic on my head, but I barely feel them.

It seems strange, how easily I am considering my death. But what's the point of not thinking about it? Short of a miracle, I'm not making it out of the arena alive.

_But_, I remind myself, _never discount the odds_. I mean, looking at this as a statistic, I have about an average chance of making it alive out of the bloodbath. I mean, I'm average height, and I'm half-starved, not all-starved like some of the kids in this thing.

Then again, I'm more likely to jump out of a car than to kill someone. And it's unlikely I'll ever see a car again. At the moment, a chariot seems more likely.

"Ow!" I cry, interrupted from my thoughts by a sharp, ripping pain on my lower legs.

"Sorry!" chirps Vici, holding a strip of cloth covered in hair. "Your costume won't work if you're all hairy!"

I resist the urge to groan, and I try not to cry out as Vici, pale blue curls bobbing around her face, begins to apply another strip.

Twenty minutes later, they're done with my hair. All of it. I wish I could be anywhere else- but I remind myself that, if not me, this would be Screne.

"There!" Vidi, whose skin is tattooed with a strange, camouflage pattern, says cheerfully. "You look civilized, now!"

I want to ask if they always speak in exclamation points, but instead, I grin, trying to keep my expression away from a grimace. One of my favorite things about myself is my complexion, and my skin is flushed and raw. At least I'm not wearing any makeup.

"Pictor will be in to do your makeup in a bit!" Vici says, patting my arm. "You're going to look so great, no one will be able to tell you're from the districts!"

Perhaps they think I honestly care?

I work up the sincerity to thank them, and they hurry out the door. I sit in the room alone for a minute, stark naked and still trying to think about force fields, when a thin man with more metal in his face than most televisions walks in.

He is holding a canister of silver body paint, and a rope of neon lights.

"I'm Pictor," he says, grinning and looking me up and down. "How do you like the color silver?"

_Forcefieldsforcefieldsforce... I give up._

-x-

**Diele (D1)**

This costume is awfully itchy. I can see why- the thousands of tiny, blue (fake?) jewels that have been adhesively attached to my skin. Pretty, but… deeply, deeply annoying. Lycra and Chalice have been herded off into other rooms, and I'm thankful for that.

I need some time to come to terms with what is going on in the mirror. It's not just the costume, which, though sheer and wispy over my itchy-jewel-body, inexplicably gives me a shape I don't have. Just… my face. She doesn't look like me. Her cheek bones have been restructured by careful makeup application, her eyes are a brilliant green, and her skin has been made up to hide any flaws.

Hard to say, but I think I miss my spider-bite. It gave me character.

The prep crew, of whom I can only remember the name of the redheaded Claudia, scurries in. They are harried and probably overworked, having three tributes this year, but they are in their element.

I force a smile.

"Beautiful," I emote, and they gush for the rest of my touch-ups and spare me the difficulty of talking.

"Canina will be right back," one of the nameless ones chirps, her brilliant chartreuse hair bouncing with happiness. "She'll be so pleased you like it!"

My face frozen in an adequate smile, I nod happily. Canina is much quieter than the prep team, which can be a bit scary. But at this point, my ears desperately need a break.

They retreat the way they came, beaming and cooing complements to themselves, ("I did a _lovely_ job with you!") finally leaving me alone again. I wonder how poor Chalice is holding up. She was… fragile, on the train. Lycra deserves a good portion of the credit for that.

More heels click outside the door, and Canina glides in, six feet tall naturally, seven feet in the heels she's wearing. I'm not quite six feet myself, and I've always been considered tall. She dwarfs me, or she would, if I wasn't standing on a platform.

"You look good," she mutters, the most words she's strung together since my arrival.

I scrunch my mouth into a grin again.

"Thanks," I say cheerfully, still not sure what _she_ wants to hear.

She gestures at my smile. "Don't."

With a sigh of relief, I assume my normal expression, somewhere between indifference and annoyance.

"Be yourself," she insists.

"How am I supposed to do that?" I snap, whirling on the platform to face away from the mirror. "I've got glass in my eyes, crud all over my skin, and about half a pound of makeup on. This isn't me!"

"You want to live," she states, giving me a hard look. "This is what you do to live."

It's hard to argue with that, but I'm sore all over, and flaming mad at humanity in general. Besides, she's talking. And not in the creepy, chipper tone, either. The way she speaks is too fluid to be natural, but it's more comforting than the harsh Capitol accent.

"Okay, sorry. And thanks," I mutter. She pats me on the shoulder, and leaves.

-x-

**Perl (D8)**

"Touch ups!" calls Licinia, clapping her pale hands as my prep team scurries in. They look up and down at my roughly woven wool dress, which can't help but like. It's modest, as chariot outfits go, all the way down to my ankles, with sleeves that envelope my arms, comfortable, and colorful.

I haven't cried since Licinia thrust it over my head. But I can feel the knot in my throat that means I'm going to start again, soon.

"Add some water-resistant makeup to her eyes. You've seen her cry," Licinia orders, and I bite my lip. I need to stop crying. I know I need to keep from crying on the chariot.

But if I don't cry, who will?

Holland has been so nice to me, but he isn't a comfort, because I know that neither of us have any kind of chance. If there is to be a winner, I want it to be him. I want him to go home with food, and hug his sister, and have a life. It's only fair.

But I want that, too. I feel awful saying it, but I want everyone else to drop dead and let me go home. I've never felt so strongly about something before… not passionate enough to act on it, of course. But to fantasize, to imagine going home to Moire and Chino and a comfortable house and a pension… is it really so wrong?

"Licinia, she's crying again," says a member of my prep team, a touch of panic in his voice. "What do I do?"

Licinia sighs, and I realize that I _am _crying. My eyes are wet and cold.

"Change of plans. Get me some clear gel."

Several people around me scatter in various directions, grabbing something, and hurrying back. I keep my eyes closed, trying to make myself stop. Suddenly, I feel something slimy all over my face, hardening almost instantly.

With a gasp, I open my eyes, to see, in the mirror, that I have tear marks all down my face. The prep team continues as if nothing has happened.

"What… what did you do?" I falter.

"I've given you an image," Licinia says blithely, smiling at her own intelligence. "You're the grieving mother! Torn away from her family!"

Yes, I am. But… that's not how I want my husband to remember me. That's not how I want my daughter to see me, some day, in a recap of the quell. I want to be Perl… I want to be brave, and strong, for them.

"Oh, don't worry," she reassures me. "The sponsors will love it!"

…I don't care about the sponsors…

…I just want to go home…

-x-

**Dylan (D4)**

This happens every year. This systematic gluing-together of legs, application of scales, fins, I don't know what else.

Maybe Rippel can pull it off, but Gull and I, at least, were never meant to be mermen. He looks as embarrassed as I certainly do. We are fish from the neck down. But fish don't look nearly this stupid. They look like fish. We look like unfortunate escapees from a madhouse.

Rippel is still being touched up by her prep team, so Gull and I get some quality time to avoid looking at mirrors. Honestly, how does District Four get sponsors? Scilla is laughing her head off at home, I'm sure of it.

A door opens, and Rippel shuffles out, her legs bound together in the same manner as ours.

They've taken her glasses, and added extensions and seaweed to her hair. The contacts don't seem to be working out for her, and she narrowly misses the doorframe.

When she reaches our little wheeled platform, she sighs in relief.

"I'm going to need some help getting up."

Gull and I nod, trying to help her. Because of our incapacitating costumes, we will be wheeled to the chariot boarding area. Needing help to move is going to make a _great_ impression.

We all huddle together, trying to stay upright. I'm the tallest, and thus, the obvious anchor for the other two.

"Okay!" chirps Glycius, our head stylist. "I have a team of Peacekeepers coming to help you to the boarding zone. Good luck! You look fabulous!"

Without waiting for a comment from us, he skips away, leaving us alone on the rolling platform in the corridor.

"So," says Gull. "Have we met any of our allies yet?"

Gull is a pretty decent guy, even if I wouldn't totally classify him as a Career. He's the odd one out of our trio, but I still want him in the pack. District loyalty is a great motivator, and Rippel and I can use an ally we won't have to watch our backs around.

"Uh, yeah," Rippel replies after a second of thought. "I ran into the Lycra girl from one on the way down. She's definitely a Career, if a bit… petty."

I nod. I saw one of her partners, Diele, at the recreation center last night.

"I met one of the other One girls. She seemed trustworthy enough," I add.

"How about the little one? Chalice? Do we want her?" Rippel asks.

"The more the merrier. Might as well keep as many people close as possible," I say.

No one adds that the Twos are decidedly the most intimidating this year. From the huge guy, to the ratfaced boy, to the slightly unhinged girl. They're the ones we need to worry about recruiting.

"Do we invite Auroch?" Gull asks, breaking the silence.

"I don't think so," replies Rippel. "He seems like a guy with his own agenda."

I nod agreement, but three Peacekeepers walk up, no doubt snickering silently at our costumes, and begin to pull our platform.

It's all I can do to stand up straight, and it's even more difficult considering that I've got Rippel pulling me off balance on one side, and Gull on the other.

"It's okay, you guys. This is going to work out, even if we get laughed at. I mean, there's got to be someone dressed worse than us."

-x

**Demetra (D2)**

I look utterly amazing. That's not to say my costume is comfortable- I'm in a tight jumpsuit, covered from head to toe with white dust, grey patterns, and a few flecks of actual marble glued here and there on my skin.

Seriously, I am a freaking statue. It's awesome.

Lucian and Martial seem to already dislike each other, which is fine by me. I'm not getting in between the two, though. When our chariot is ready to load, I make certain the Lucian gets the middle spot.

I think Lucian hates me, too. And I can't blame the little rat. I certainly don't like him, not that he can tell. One of my little pleasures is snarking, and neither of them are receptive. At all.

"Nice makeup, Lucy," I jibe, poking him in the ribs with my elbow.

"Don't call me that," he says, not looking up.

With a sigh, I let up, something I'm not fond of doing. I just can't make him angry.

The chariot two back from us is still empty, and a few people seem concerned. I'm certainly not. However, I find myself nearly doubling over when they roll in- literally, roll in. In mermaid suits.

Again.

"Shut _up_!" one of the girls from One whines, making a face at me. It's the seventeen, Lycra.

"Make me, Blondie," I retort.

The One girls are all in similar outfits, which provide very little coverage, but a whole lot of glitter. Diele, who I have labeled 'the decent one' mutters something to Blondie, then dodges a slap.

I think I like her.

I look around, to see the Three boy decked out like a holiday tree, painted silver and strung with lights. At least he obviously has clothes on beneath all the paint.

He smiles tentatively, like he's not sure what else to do. I roll my eyes, looking further back.

The Fours are mermaids, as I've already noticed.

The Five girl is in a short, structured dress with patches like a calculator. I'm dying to make a crack about pushing her buttons, but I there's no one around to appreciate it.

The Six girl, whose self-satisfied smirk I already hate, is in a green, color-changing dress. I don't know how that represents medicine and science or whatever, but, then again, how do mermaids represent fishing?

The pair from Seven are trees. Not even pretty trees. They look like a pre-grade's toys.

The two from Eight are in huge, roughly woven things. I say things because I really don't know how to qualify their clothing. The girl has what is definitely a dress… maybe that's a poncho that the boy is wearing?

The Nine boy is in animal skins. Simple as that. If you rung out his stylist, I'm betting you'd get a lot of blood, but no creativity whatsoever.

The Tens are cows. Or, more accurately, a glowing orange bull and an equally colorful calf. That Auroch guy is enormous, and the little girl is absolutely tiny. It makes for interesting scale in the costumes.

I don't know hope it happened, but the Elevens are fruit trees. Their costumes are different from the Sevens, and yet, strikingly similar. Their leafy headdresses are hung with fruit, and their clothing, though bark-colored, is much more figure hugging.

They look like cheap rip-offs of the Sevens, and that's saying a lot, considering that the Sevens are cheap rip-offs of trees.

With a long sigh, I face forward again. I like my costume the best. No surprise there.

A Peacekeeper begins, to wave the One chariot ahead, and I assume a superior expression, which isn't difficult to do. Then, our chariot is called, and we finally start to move.

I am so ready for this.

-x

**Pasque (D11)**

I am not ready for this.

District Eleven is last in line. Not only that, but we look like District Seven knockoffs… now with fruit!

Sorrel is the only one in this chariot with any confidence left. She and Husk get along relatively well, and you get the sense that he's already singled her out as his favorite. That annoys Skiff to no end, and I can't say that isn't the case for me.

Seriously, we haven't even started training yet, but he's already talking her through the hours after the bloodbath, what to do with her supplies, which supplies are worth it… Skiff and I are lucky to get a few seconds of advice on the bloodbath.

"Run. Fast. Don't look back."

She makes herself impossible to hate by apologizing to us constantly and throwing in compliments to the two of us whenever they talk.

"I was talking to Pasque," she'll say, "and guess what? He's a really good climber, and fast, too."

"You should get some advice from him, then," Husk inevitably replies. "it'll give you an edge."

I want so badly to hate her. But you can't hate someone so… nice, is it?

Skiff and I don't much get along, either. We've tried. But I don't think any sort of alliance is going to work out. I'm going into the games alone, barring a miracle. It seems, however, that what little luck I had ran out a year ago.

Our chariot finally rolls out, dead last. It doesn't seem like anyone pays attention to us. We're the last district- the fervor surrounding the first few has died down. Even the glowing, color-changing cows before us are getting noticed more.

Someone throws a flower, which hits Sorrel dead in the face. She makes a little noise, and Skiff immediately goes to help her. I just sigh, pick up the flower, and toss it right back. I may really want to hate Sorrel, but when you're stuck in last place, you've got to stick together.

"Thanks," she whispers to both of us as we begin to circle the President's mansion.

The camera that shows shots of all the tributes' faces spends almost no time on us, preferring the District One's, whose jewel-encrusted skin has begun to glow blue in the dark.

I just keep my eyes open, paying no attention to what is being said, concentrating only on what has gone wrong, and what will continue to.

Everyone in this chariot will be dead within a month. That much I am sure of.

We begin to roll again, and I am jolted back into the moment. Sorrel has a pink blotch on her forehead where the flower hit her, and I know Husk will have called for first aid by the time we get back to the center. If it was Skiff or me, we would be told to shake it off, because, of course, worse things are going to happen to us very, very soon.

Ugh.

We step out of the chariot, our legs all a bit wobbly. A medic is standing right by us, and Sorrel is immediately removed from the chariot, protesting that she is completely fine.

The District Four mermaids have ripped off their tails, and are congregating with the Ones and Twos. Everyone else, though, simply mills around without knowing what to do. Slowly, as our escorts join us, tributes begin to file out.

Seraph prattles about how great we looked, happily believing the lie herself. She fawns over Sorrel and her 'wound', insisting that she lie down when we reach our rooms.

Skiff and I will have free run of the place, or, at least, what little of the place we are allowed into. I foresee an evening spent showering, eating, and crying, thinking of the games, missing my family, and wishing, beyond anything else in the world, to be back home.

**-x**

**Sorry for all the POVs. I wanted to get as wide a spectrum of tributes as possible. :)**

_This update's question_: Has this chapter changed your point of view about any of the tributes?


	26. Training

**Chalice (D1)**

For a district kid, I am surprisingly knowledgeable about the Training Center. For a Career, though, I might as well be a pre-grade.

There's a short introduction by a man named Agrippa, while most of us mill about uneasily. I'm trying to stick close to Diele, but I can tell it's beginning to annoy her. He dismisses us to the training room, and she hurries off towards the Swordplay station with Dylan from District Four.

_Okay_, I think to myself, _it's okay_. _You're still better off than most of the district kids._

I am quickly drawn to Gull, the other odd one out from a Career district. Originally, I was hoping Lucian would join our little group-within-a-group, but, then again, he wasn't devastated like Gull and me when he wasn't volunteered for.

Gull does his best to show me around, since he is a bit more of a real Career than I am. Most people avoid us, though I don't see how we're so menacing. The Careers are for the most part, polite, but I can tell they'd love to ditch us. The district kids seem to lump us in with the Careers, and the Careers lump us in with the district kids.

Together, we head to the vacant archery station.

The trainer there is very businesslike, sizing us up for bows, giving Gull the bigger of the two. We share an awkward moment as the attendant waits for us to know what to do.

Right. Because we're Careers to the Capitol, too. What little I know of fighting, however, has absolutely nothing to do with archery.

With an exasperated sigh, the trainer shows me how to hold the bow, how to nock an arrow, how to pull the string back just the right amount.

Closing my eyes, I turn in the general direction of the target and release the string. It snaps back and hits my on the ear, eliciting a little cry of pain. My eyes water for a second, but I look up to see the arrow in the neck of a dummy… Gull's dummy.

He's trying valiantly not to laugh.

I sigh, putting the bow down.

"It's useless. I'm totally incompetent," I mutter.

No one really knows what to say, so I pick up the bow, hand it to the trainer, and wander away.

It seems like every other station has someone. I don't feel like talking to people, though. Even the usually-abandoned knot tying station has two Careers… Dylan from Four, and Diele. He's teaching her something very complicated, but her knot sits in a tangle.

Auroch is controlling the knifework station with sheer size. He is easily the biggest person in the room, even compared to Martial. Half a foot taller, and much more eloquent.

I feel bad for all of us. Except maybe Lycra… but that's wrong. It's not her fault how she is. Nonetheless, it's hard to feel sympathy for someone who regularly compares you to a sausage.

A few deep breaths and I feel a little better. I muster up the courage to join the little Ten girl at the almost-empty swordplay station. She is utterly monopolizing the trainer, which I really don't mind.

There is a nice short sword at the station, hanging on a peg. I pick it up. It fits my hand okay, but I don't like the feeling.

For a minute, I watch the Ten girl perform drill after drill with almost mechanical repetition. I assume a similar stance, and try the moves that she is repeating.

Slash left, slash right, stab, flip, stab.

My forearm already hurts, and I can see pain in her face as well.

Slash left, slash right, stab, flip, stab.

She is standing next to me in a heartbeat, her hand on the hilt of my sword.

"You're holding it wrong," she says. "You're only hurting yourself."

I'm a bit taken aback, but I don't yank the blade away like I bitterly want to. She isn't holding hers quite the same way, but, still. I'm supposed to be the one who knows what to do.

"Well, you're hurting yourself, too," I snap. "I can see it in your face."

"That's not the sword," she says calmly.

"Oh," I mutter. "Sorry. I'm Chalice."

She shakes her head, corrects my grip, and goes back to her drills. Over and over again. Slash left, slash right, stab, flip, stab.

My teeth grind together. This grip _does_ feel better.

Diele walks up behind me, and I turn around with a start. The Ten girl doesn't even notice, but continues to precisely execute the pattern. It's clear to me that she is attempting to train herself.

"Found a friend?" Diele asks skeptically, eyeing the girl's size.

"Not really," I sputter. "But Gull is very nice. Can… can I sit with you for lunch?"

I sound so clingy. Silently, I admonish myself for it.

"If Dylan gives it the okay," she says. "Don't worry. I knew your brothers. They were good guys. But I can't promise you anything more than a chance."

She gives me a little smile, turns on her heel, and goes to meet the District Two girl at the spear station. I sigh to myself, feeling useless. I'm a Career, from District One, and the tiniest competitor is already upstaging me.

-x

**Holland (D8)**

After wandering around like a lost puppy through the first half of training, I'm not looking forward to lunch. There are several long tables set up, each of which probably seats about ten people, and there are twenty-two plates of Capitol food on a counter by the wall.

Of course, the Careers have claimed the adjacent table, leaving the rest of us to mill about awkwardly and wonder whether it's safe to go after the meal. Except for Auroch, of course, who no one questions as he pushes past the rest of us and walks to the other side of the room, settling down to eat alone.

I'm drawn to Perl, a familiar face, and we lock eyes for a second. She seems to get my meaning, and she edges around the Career table to grab two plates. They're obviously having the time of their lives, and she is barely even noticed.

Still, we sit at opposite ends of a long table. No one from the_ real_ districts is in the mood to talk much.

Following Perl's example, a few of the braver tributes are grabbing their lunches. The thirteen girl from District Ten stalks over to a different table with her food without looking anyone in the eye, and Skiff from Eleven sits just two seats down from me.

He looks a bit conflicted, like he's wondering how to start talking to me, so I decide to help him out.

"Hi. I'm Holland, from Eight," I say as brightly as I can, trying to muster up some cheerfulness to make him comfortable. I could use a friend.

"Skiff," he says quietly, poking at the green beans in some sort of sauce that make up a quarter of his plate.

I stare at my food for a few seconds, feeling awkward.

"Um… the beans are good." I'm just grasping at straws.

He shoots me a somewhat mean look.

"They should be. We grow them in Eleven."

"Okay, you know what?" I snap, more than a little annoyed at his indifference, "If you didn't want to talk, you shouldn't have sat there. Excuse me if I'm not giving up on life!"

He raises an eyebrow at me, and I flush with embarrassment and stress. I would never have blown up with so little provocation anywhere else.

"Sorry. Stress, you know…" I mumble.

"No, it's okay. Seriously. I'm the same way. Can you believe the Careers?" says Skiff, looking, if anything, even friendlier than before I yelled at him.

"Umm… no. They are a bit more raucous than usual," I stammer, caught a little off guard by his kindness.

Indeed, they've escalated from their loud and annoying talking to loud and annoying fighting. Two of the District One girls are standing up, and the blonde one is screaming some pretty insulting things. Skiff scoffs in their general direction.

"Idiots, every one of them," he mutters, resuming his meal. I'm a bit more reluctant to stop talking; I've missed having guys my own age to talk with, and there don't appear to be any forthcoming.

"So, how old are you?" I ask, which sounds stupid after it's left my mouth, but doesn't seem to phase him.

"Fourteen. But I'll be fifteen in a few months," he says over a mouthful of chicken in a clear orange sauce. "You?"

"I turned fourteen a few weeks ago," I reply, eying my own chicken and wondering about its integrity.

"Then I guess we're both near the bottom of the age spectrum."

I nod, licking a tiny bit of the sauce off my fork. It seems okay, so I dig into the chicken.

"Yeah." I choke out through mouthfuls, "There's just us, and the thirteen in Ten."

He scoffs again. "Girls."

"Huh?" I ask, looking up.

"She's a girl! They shouldn't let girls do these games. Look at her, she's tiny."

I decide against mentioning to Skiff that the District Ten girl isn't _that_ much smaller than he is.

"Lighten up. See the Career girls? They know what they're doing," I add, feeling a little defensive for the sake of my sister, even though the likelihood of her seeing Skiff's comment is minimal.

He just takes another bite of chicken, chewing slowly.

"You're from Eight, right?" he asks, swallowing carefully. "How is it there?"

"Well… there're a lot of factories. My parents are teachers, though. Why do you ask?"

It's weird to be explaining my district to someone, even if it's a pretty pitiful description. He shrugs.

"No reason. I've never been out of Eleven." He gives me a questioning look.

"Oh," I say. "I've never left Eight, but my dad went to a meeting in the Capitol once. He's pretty much in charge of the school system."

Skiff nods, laughing under his breath.

"My dad mends shoes."

We're quiet again, and in that calm, we can hear the Careers, unfortunately, much better.

"Hey! Get your paws off my hair!" shrieks the blonde from District One, as the only District Two girl yanks her off her feet by way of her ponytail, dodging a blow that probably would have broken her nose.

"Just sit down and eat," bushy-hair girl sighs, dragging the One girl into her seat.

Across the table, the tallest boy from District Four has his head in his hands.

"All of you sit down. For the love of god, sit down."

"Look at that," I mutter to Skiff. "They're not even nervous! Heck, they're already fighting."

"I know what you mean," he says gloomily. "And it looks like they're the only real alliance, too."

We scan the room. No one else really seems to be sitting together, and only a few are talking, like Skiff and me.

"Well, hold on," I say, pointing to Skiff's female district partner and the girl from District Five. "It looks like the girl with the unpronounceable name is allying with…"

I trail off, realizing I don't know the District Eleven girl's name.

"Sorrel," he says. "She and Husk have really taken to each other. I wouldn't be surprised if he told her to find a friend."

"Did he say that to you?" I ask, a little surprised. Perl and I only have one mentor between us, and he's not been all that helpful. It feels more like us caring for him. More accurately, Perl caring for him and me trying not to get in the way.

"Implied it," Skiff says, unabashed. "But I didn't want to."

"And yet, you're talking to me," I say, smiling. "Was it my dashing good looks?"

"Possibly your charming personality," he deadpans. "No, this is completely your fault. I never intended to talk to you, or anyone. I don't really want to get to know anyone here."

I understand that, but I don't think I could do it. I need people. I like people, and, for the most part, people like me.

"But now you're trapped. You can't exactly un-meet me, can you?"

"No reason to rub it in," he mutters, and stuffs another piece of chicken in his mouth. I can see that he's covering up a small smile.

We spend the rest of lunch eating and conversing, but mostly eating. What else is there to do, really?

-x

**Lucian (D2)**

"I can't stand her!" Demetra fumes, skewering a dummy at close range. "I hate you all!"

Her words are directed at Dylan, the unofficial leader of the Careers. She doesn't know that I'm listening, and would doubtless not care if she did.

"Look, Demetra, please put the spear down," he pleads, and I notice that she has retrieved her weapon, and is waving it in his face.

"You're all idiots, and you'll get me killed before the bloodbath is out! I'm sick of it!" she shrieks, poking him in the chest with the dull spear point. "Don't tell me what to do!"

This is an interesting turn of events. As far as I can tell, Demetra and Diele are on at least neutral terms. Though I am probably the worst possible judge, I would think that loose friendship might bind her to the group.

"Diele," Dylan says in an even tone, pushing the speartip away from him, "_please_ talk to her."

"Don't you dare try to reason with me!" Demetra warns, as Diele walks over. "You're the only one I don't hate yet!"

"Okay, calm down," says Diele. "No one's forcing you to do anything."

"Damn right they're not!"

"Maybe this isn't going to work out," she sighs, looking to Dylan for affirmation. I think. Or maybe it's just a look. I can never tell.

"No, I guess not," says Demetra, throwing her last spear with such force that it embeds in the wall. She's missed the dummy, but nobody points that out. "I quit!"

With that, she storms off.

I can't say I'm not relieved. Dylan and Diele, however, look worried.

"What do you think she'll do?" Diele asks tentatively.

"At least we've got Martial… and Lucian," Dylan replies, noticing my vicinity. "Everything is going to work out. She was throwing a wrench in the pack, anyway. And the Twos don't like her enough to break off with her."

Hmm. No, I suppose I don't. The Career base is far more secure, and far less aggravating.

"Think we can get rid of Lycra, too? She's not exactly helping," Diele mutters, picking up her own spear and chucking it at a dummy.

"I don't think we can afford to lose anyone else so early," says Dylan.

The two are businesslike as they throw spears, talking a bit more about pack dynamics. Most of the relationships they discuss have gone under my nonexistent radar, so it's interesting to hear what's going on from someone who actually understood any of it.

The Training Center doesn't have a specialized weapons station. They're still ruminating about Auroch when I decide to find something worthwhile to do.

Demetra is sulking at the edible plants station, so I avoid that. Gymnastics is too easy, and being dominated by Lycra and Rippel. Most district kids are just sort of milling about, occasionally trying something, but never staying for too long. I have half a mind to join them. I have already learned everything I ever will.

My aim may be impeccable, but I will never be able to use a bow. I may have good balance, but that does not extend to a spear.

I spend half an hour at the Ranged Weapons station, where a pile of slingshots, what look like throwing stars, and two bolos sit in a heap.

Yes, I can shoot with a slingshot. Perfectly. But unless I can find myself a gun, my sense of aim is useless. And what are the odds on that one? The only other people who would know how to use one are Demetra and Martial- and I have doubts about Martial's capability with a ranged weapon.

I also know that he would not mind killing me with one, or with anything. Martial wants me dead over my experiment with his mental capabilities… two years ago? He accepted the lie that I was interested in a girl, but still seemed to retain his own will.

That much is obvious. I had wondered about his mental illness- it is easy to tell that he has one. But my experiment left me with a broken leg, an enemy, and no real data.

I have to sigh. A slingshot would be of no use at all against him.

One benefit to my condition, whatever it is, is that, though pain may be difficult to fathom, it is much more obvious in the faces of others. Perhaps it would be more worthwhile for me to simply watch my competition?

Putting down my slingshot, I decide on that course of action.

The girl from Ten is the first one I notice. Her face seems perpetually contorted, as she repeats drill after drill with a knife. I walk quietly over, observing that she has no source of discomfort. She leans almost unnoticeably inward, and her unoccupied hand strays occasionally to her stomach.

Interesting.

Auroch's face registers nothing. He manages to block everything out, viciously striking blow after blow to a dummy with a huge knife that I doubt I could lift if I tried.

The tributes of District Eleven are an interesting bunch. The boys are resentful, and the girl is oblivious to it. She blithely strings a bow, completely ignoring them, until the District Eight boy introduces himself to her, and then drags one of the boys away.

I could watch people all day, but understand none of them. And I do, leaning on a pillar that supports the Training Center.

When it matters, I will know them better than they know themselves. Nothing as shallow and unreadable as emotions. I will remember what makes them hurt. And I will use it to my advantage.

Their weakness is my gain.

**-x-**

**Have you noticed how fast I'm publishing these? That's 'cause I was writing them when I should have been doing reapings.**

_This update's question:_ Which tribute do you identify with the most?


	27. Allies

**Asha (D7)**

I'm so alone. Surrounded by people, but alone nonetheless. I miss my grandma. I'd give anything to be back home with her. I'd give anything to be back with my parents, even.

All I want is to go home. I don't want allies, I don't want to learn to fight. I want to run away. I'm a coward. I admit it.

Forester is a good guy. He's got a good sense of humor, and he largely keeps me from doing something stupid, like trying to run. But he isn't my grandma, and he isn't a comfort. He is going to die too. I know it. Anyone who's seen the others knows it.

My district partner is very strong, braver than me, a hard worker, determined.

But he is going to die. We're all going to die, and there's nothing I can do. I can't train. We've been doing it for a week, now. There's one more yet to come. But I'm too scared to talk to people, too scared to be like Forester- to put my head down and learn some skills.

It's stupid. I'm signing my death certificate. But it helps me pretend that this isn't happening.

There are other people like me, who are paralyzed like this. The District Eight girl. The taller District Eleven boy. We are the ones who have already accepted it. Maybe it's a mistake. In fact, I know it is. But the fact remains that we have.

Forester is a fighter. Tanner from Nine is a fighter. Lissom from Ten is more determined than I could have imagined. Even Iezsa, from Five, who I would have been friends with if given the chance, has found her footing.

I'm only seventeen. I'm only seventeen. I shouldn't have to do this.

"Asha, dear?" the door to my room opens a crack, and Tiara, the escort, steps in. "Forester and Sylvan are meeting, and they'd like it if you would join them."

"No," I groan, "tell them I'm sleeping."

"Dear, they insist."

Fully dressed from the night before, I roll out of bed. I am rumpled, wrinkled around the edges, and much, much older than seventeen.

"Oh, Asha," she sighs, straightening me up and patting the top of my head. "Do cheer up. See what they want."

Tiara is somewhat homely by Capitol standards, and her face is lined with age. I know from what she has said that she has grandchildren, but her own son died in the army.

I like her more than most of the people I've met. She seems genuine. She is sad to see someone as young as me throwing my life away, whether it is my own choice or not. Tiara seems to like everyone, but she has been especially motherly to me.

Sylvan and Forester are already at the breakfast table, their plates in disarray. Tiara's is neatly stacked at one corner, waiting to be picked up. Mine is cold and untouched.

"Glad you decided to join us, Woodlawn," says Sylvan.

I just sigh, poking at my plate of fluffy golden pancakes and impossibly sweet jam. No matter how many times I eat it, it doesn't taste right. The cakes aren't… grainy enough. The jam doesn't have enough lumps.

"How are you?" Forester asks, looking worried as the minutes go by and I only pick at my plate.

"Fine," I mumble.

"Well, I can tell you this: you're not getting any better if you don't pay attention when we're talking strategy."

I force myself to look up, and, despite his tone, Sylvan is looking at me with genuine concern.

"Look," he says, in a kinder voice. "Why don't you look for allies today? You're halfway through training, and I'm thinking that your best shot will be allying up."

"Huh?" I ask. I have no clue what he means. Maybe my days of not listening have begun to desensitize me to his voice. "Allying up?"

"Find someone with a skill that you don't have. Shouldn't be too hard. Chat them up, make friends, ally."

He's insulting me. If I wasn't so tired, I would poke back. But I just want to be left alone. It's clear that won't happen until I suggest someone.

"Ummm… Forester?" I'm grabbing at straws, but he looks surprised nonetheless.

Sylvan barks a laugh.

"Forester has already allied up. He's been paying attention for the last week, unlike someone I could name."

Forester shoots me an embarrassed smile, but I can't bring myself to reciprocate. Sylvan, who apparently notices everything, grins as well.

"Here. I had your attentive friend there keep track of who seems to be getting along. It should help you pick. Unless he objects..?"

Shrugging, Forester pulls a napkin out of his pocket. It has been scribbled on, but legibly enough.

D1 Girls (Chalice, Lycra, Diele), D2 Boys (Martial, Lucian? Is that really his name?) D4 Boys (Dylan, Gull) D4 Girl (Rippel) _Careers!_

D5 Girl (Impossible name), D11 Girl (Sorrel), D6 Girl (Rachel)

D7 Boy (Me!), D9 Boy (Tanner)

D8 Boy (Holl-something), D11 Boy (Skiff)

"Oh," I say, looking the list over. "Wait, how did the Six girl get any allies? She was kind of a brat, wasn't she?"

"Bullied them into it, I'm guessing," Forester said with a shrug. "That's not quite all the alliances, either. I know for a fact that the Careers got rid of the District Two girl, and I'm pretty sure she's out for an ally."

"What's her name?" I ask, a bit intrigued.

"No!" Sylvan and Forester say at the same time.

"She's a little bit 'off'," Forester explains. "Got in a fight with her allies on the first day. You really didn't notice? That's why she's out of the pack."

I heave a sigh.

"So I guess I shouldn't try to ally up with her, then?"

"Definitely not," says Sylvan. "I've seen some footage from your training. Believe me, no one's suicidal enough to ally with _her_."

He's probably about to explain something, but Tiara pops back in, telling us it's time for training, and we need to go _now_.

"Good luck, both of you," says Sylvan, flipping on the TV in the corner. "Asha, remember what I said about allying up. Forester, I want you to get to know that Tanner better before you throw yourself into anything."

As we march out, I turn back to get a last glimpse of the room. Just in time to see Sylvan mouth 'I'll be watching'.

-x

**Lectic (D3)**

How do I get myself into this stuff?

Sometimes, I think it's on purpose. My suicidal subconscious muttering 'volunteer' or 'go for it, no one's watching'.

Or, in this case, 'don't look up, it doesn't matter who it is'.

"Hey, can I sit here?" someone asks. I don't look, of course, from the knot I am attempting to tie. I merely nod in the polite manner I usually adopt when I'm working. The knot is beginning to look suspiciously like a ball of twine, which I know Sparky would love. I miss him…

Stupid, stupid me. Lost in the moment, I look up to ask the instructor for more twine, to notice for the first time that the person sitting next to me is not at all who I expected.

"What's your name?" asks Demetra from District Two, smiling with what seems like a polite expression.

I drop my knot-ball-thing of twine.

"You know, if I knew you were this clumsy, I could have gone to someone else," she observes, picking the twine up. "Maybe you should wear a sign?"

"Hi. Hey. I'm Lectic," I stutter, a moment too late.

"Not very articulate, either," she adds. "I'm Demetra."

"I noticed," I say lamely.

"Sooo…" she drags out the syllable. "How is… knot tying? Going well?"

I'm beginning to question her motives. In hindsight, I should have been questioning her motives from moment one. Perhaps mistakenly, I take the direct approach.

"What's the deal with you?" I ask, a touch of annoyance coloring my voice. "People like you don't talk to people like me unless they want something."

Her face is surprised, and then… impressed? No, slightly mocking. Back to normal. Now comes the part where she kills me.

She leans in, and starts talking very fast.

"Okay, look. You need an ally, and my mentor nearly bit my head off when I turned down the Careers. So I need one too, okay? So this had better work. Or we're both dead in a week. Get my drift here? I'm looking for someone smart, strong, and not allied with my dear comrades from before," she mutters, pausing briefly to take a breath.

"You know what, Lectic?" she finishes, "Two out of three isn't half bad."

"Umm…" I say, "You're right. It's only a third bad."

"See, I like you already," she says, satisfied. "Now, what are your skills? Do you work in a factory, or what?"

"Umm…" I say again, wondering how much of what I do she'll understand. "I'm kind of… unemployed, I guess."

She shakes her head vigorously.

"Not good. I need details for my mentor. Make something up if you have to."

"I'm a hacker, basically. Kind of a thief, only requiring less agility."

"Good enough, though not totally believable," she says, shrugging. "Any past with the games?"

"My aunt, before the Great Rebellion. Died."

"Hey, same with one of my uncles. The other one's a Head Peacekeeper, but that's beside the point. You'll do. Talk to me at lunch. Act like we've been planning this."

Then she dashes off to some other station, leaving me alone to accept a length of twine from the trainer, who looks just as mystified as me.

What just happened?

My next attempt at a knot is, if anything, less successful than my first. The twine is as snarled as my thoughts, and as a result of my looking away while tying it, I have knotted several of my fingers together.

Massaging my sore fingers after the trainer cuts me free, I try the traps and snares, with similar results. My hands are really taking a beating today.

The tip of my thumbnail broken, I am resisting the urge to bite it off when the lunch bell rings.

Remembering what the District Two girl said, and also how the Careers have a tendency to block access to the food table, I hurry to the plates of fluffy grey mash, vibrantly colored fruit, and some sort of pink meat I believe is ham in a deep brown gravy.

It smells divine, and the plate is still warm.

I wonder if Sparky is getting fed. Odds are that my parents will remember, or Screne's family will remind them. That was one of my requests.

Out of habit, I look for an empty table, but I remember the girl who appears to have become my ally (how did that happen again?) and search for her instead.

She's at the corner of the room farthest away from the Career table. Of course. I wave halfheartedly, and she shoots me a get-over-here look.

With a sigh, I walk over and join her.

"Honestly, I would not be doing this if I didn't need an ally," she says, the second I join her. "And understand that I am not extending any sort of friendship, here. Mutual need, okay? If you get on my nerves, I reserve the right to kill you."

I decide not to ask if I have the same option.

"But," she continues, "If you turn out to be useful, I'll keep you alive. And yeah, I'm confident I can do that."

"Okay," I sputter. "So, how does this work? Do you have a strategy or something? Because I haven't even thought it over."

"My strategy is to kill those idiots and win the thing. I wasted my eighteenth birthday with them, and they will pay for that."

"Oh. Happy birthday," I say.

She looks bemused.

"Thanks."

"What's your name again? Dem?" I ask.

"No," she snaps. "Dem to my family. It's Demetra."

I shrug and try to assume a nonthreatening expression. Because I don't want to threaten her. She seems like a completely normal, if a bit snarky, teenager. She could be from District Three. Maybe. If she wasn't also homicidal. Where some of my friends make the joking 'I swear, I'll kill you' threats, it's easy to tell that her own are bitterly earnest. She actually will. So I need to watch my step.

"Okay, Demetra. What are you planning?"

"Kill some at the bloodbath, get some weapons, then pick the rest off. Do you have a weapon?" she asks suddenly. "Not, like, an actual weapon, but one you're good at?"

"Not really…"

"I wouldn't have expected it. But, seriously, what do you _do_ all day if not training? I know some of you work in factories and stuff, but you said you were unemployed."

"I'm not exactly on the right side of the law," I say uncomfortably, shifting in my seat and gulping down a spoonful of mash.

"Oh, that tells me a lot. Mass murderer?"

"No!"

"Then you ought to be more specific. _What do you do_?"

"Well, I don't exactly steal stuff or anything, but… I do little things to make my family's life easier. Like inventing, but shadier."

"Any specifics?" she prompts, and I wonder if she is taking notes. Probably is, in her mind. To feed to her mentor.

"We bought a car, after saving for a long time. I made it so it work without keys, because the dealer was a crook. He gave us the wrong set, and wouldn't admit it. So hotwiring it was the only thing I really could do," I say, a tad defensively.

"Ooh, nice. So, a mechanic? Like the one in the 74th who dug up the mines?"

"Not quite," I mutter. "I'm not sure I could do that. They don't let us study bombs until we're nineteen, just because of that year. Even then, you have to get a background check."

"Hmm," she says. "So you're pretty useless, huh?"

"No!" I say, offended. "Well, maybe not in that respect. But I know how things work. I know a lot about arena mechanics. I've taken first aid and all that."

It feels awkward, defending my usefulness to someone who is simultaneously my last real hope and my potential worst enemy. Because I won't be able to kill her. I couldn't if I wanted to. It's not just that she wouldn't let me, but there's no way I could kill an ally.

I don't doubt that she would. Not for a second.

"I'll have to teach you how to fight," she muses, taking a large bite of her ham.

"Not really. I'm pretty good at running away," I say.

"Oh, Lectic," she sighs, laughing for a good half a minute. "Have you met my friends over there? It's not a question of getting away. You kill them before they kill you. And what if I'm asleep? I've got to make sure you'll at least scream loudly enough to wake me up."

Upon seeing my expression, she laughs again.

"Don't worry. I'd do the same for you."

And then, she adds something that makes the situation, impossibly, even more real.

"After all, we're allies, now."

**-x**

**Lectic needed another point of view, there. Next chapter will be the scoring and such, and the one after that shall be the interviews.**

**Much love to all of you. :)**

_This update's question: _Who do you think will be the first to die?


	28. Scoring

**Scoring**

It's finally time to see what the contestants have learned, and I'm on the edge of my seat. As always. In fact, even more so than usual with the quell.

This year, I have been more thankful than ever not to be Head Gamemaker. Xenia has been working harder than usual, as is evident by the circles beneath her eyes and the haggard way she grips her wine. Though no one would dare speak it, we know that President Norris has had her working hard, perhaps too hard, on the arena.

Even we have been in very deep, researching, planning, reading about the past that the President seems determined for us to duplicate.

However, it is Xenia's neck on the line if the arena is not to his satisfaction. And so, it is Xenia who stays after hours nearly every night, drinking just heavily enough to keep herself sane, but awake.

"Who do we have?" she murmurs, looking down at her clipboard. "There are three District One girls. Show the first one in."

Aculeo, from the other side of the room, barks the order to an Avox, who scurries away.

I look down at my own clipboard. My name, Epicure Goodwin, is printed tidily in the corner.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __ reads the first line.

The girl who is shown in has short, wavy brown hair in a functional cut. She is lean and muscular, and she gives us a wry smile.

Two Avoxes are shown in, armed with swords. She picks up a long thin blade, and neatly disarms them both, pressing the flat of her blade against each opponent's neck to show them at her mercy. She flips the sword in her hand, and, holding it like a throwing knife, tosses it through the center of a target.

She vaults over a stack of spears, retrieves her weapon, and adjusts to a swordsman's stance in the center of one of the blue mats. She produces a little beanbag, tosses it into the air, and cleaves it into fourths before it hits the ground with a clean _swischflick!_

After repeating the move on two more beanbags, she bows to us, and Xenia dismisses her.

"What do we give that?" she asks, her voice tired.

"Ten," says Falx, without looking up from his clipboard.

"Are you sure?" Cinian asks. "That was pretty amazing. I mean, I'd sponsor her…"

Its Cinian's first year. She's definitely the newbie of the bunch, watching 'Diele Hobel' with rapt attention while the rest of us make the food our priority.

"Gamemakers can't sponsor," Xenia reminds her. "And you haven't seen anything yet. Ten."

We all scribble it down on our boards, though Cinian does so reluctantly. I would have been surprised to get someone so fresh out of university on the board, but Cinian has been worth her weight in gold in working on the arena.

She's a historian, though. Not a Gamemaker. We've made it clear that she can leave the control room if it gets too much for her, which I anticipate will be the case.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __

The next girl is less impressive, but not by much. She picks up a dozen throwing knives, and rapidly throws each one into the target. None hit the center, but we soon see why. She is one of the theatrical ones, and she has arranged them into a five-pointed star.

She does some flips on the high bar, and we dismiss her.

Cinian looks very impressed.

"Nine?" she queries. Xenia looks skeptical.

"Not a very broad range. We don't have any throwing knives in the Cornucopia. I don't think she'll be very flexible in terms of weaponry."

We argue for a bit, and decide on an eight.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8 _

_Chalice Patel, District One: __

Chalice Patel's display with sword and then knife fighting is singularly unimpressive for a District One. She makes a neat snare, sets it off with a thrown sword, and smiles as if this is going better than she could have planned.

We dismiss her, and she looks hopeful as she leaves.

"Seven?" I suggest.

"I was thinking six…" Xenia muses.

"She's versatile, and no one would suspect any sort of skill from her. Versatility is worth more than plain skill in our arena," says Justinion.

"Seven," Xenia acquiesces, and we scribble it down.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __

An extremely impressive display of strength leaves Martial Sutter with a well-deserved ten. Lucian Gray, the second boy from Two, shows deadly aim and flexibility. For his size, though, he leaves with a score of seven. On the lower end of the day's scores.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __

Demetra Boise strides in with confidence to spare. Her eyes are mocking as she deftly scatters tinder in a circle around her, raising a chunk of flint and a piece of steel, and sets the circle on fire. The two Avoxes sent in to spar with her have no idea what to do, and she easily disarms them with a short sword.

"Not _the _best showing, but very theatrical," Xenia says as she is dismissed. "Nine."

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __

The boy who walks in is nervous, but obviously somewhere else in his mind. He walks over to the set of bars, and begins to unscrew them. We watch, not entirely sure what to make of it as he begins to put them back together, though differently.

Somehow, he has rearranged the supple wood and steel frame into a crude sort of catapult. He releases some small screw, and a piece of magnesium is powered into the force field with lightning speed. The shower of sparks is quite spectacular.

As we dismiss him, he looks incredibly relieved.

"Wow!" Cinian cries. "That was so… wow!"

"But almost entirely useless," Justinian reminds her. Xenia and I nod, and Cinian reluctantly suggests a score of six.

"Five," says Xenia, and she has the final word. "Maybe he has some skills, but I'm curious about their use in the arena."

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __

The next boy is about the same height as the hulking Martial, but leaner. He carries himself with an easy authority, and, though he does not exactly exude charm, he seems like the kind of person anyone could be friends with.

His act is standard for District Four. He throws a spear through the center of a target, then throws another through the shaft of the first spear, cutting it clean in two. He does something with a net that I miss as I pour more wine for myself and Xenia. By the time I look up, he is bowing, and we dismiss him.

"What did he do?" I whisper to Cinian.

"You missed it? It was pretty incredible; he threw the net, and he pulled back both spears, and then-"

I cut her off.

"Ten?" I suggest.

"Ten," Xenia replies, though she saw only as much as I did, if not less.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __

Someone lets Gull Trillby in, but I miss most of his swordplay exhibition, and again have to rely on my fellows for a recap. Xenia, who was watching, suggests a seven. Cinian negotiates his score up to an eight.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __

I don't have much attention left for Rippel Clark, though she does something graceful-looking on the recently rebuilt gymnastics bar while throwing a spear dead-on through the center of a target. Aculeo and Xenia agree on a nine without consulting me, which I am fine with.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __

Iezsa Monet has the room against her before she even walks in.

"How do you pronounce EE-eshhh-ah?" Falx slurs, and the table erupts in a debate. Xenia has to cough sternly more than once to restore order, and the girl is shown in.

She sets a tidy little fire, and douses it efficiently. Then she takes a bow from a pile, and shoots ten arrows. Seven make it to the target, and only one anywhere near the center ring. She smiles and bows, and we dismiss her.

"Five?" I ask. Xenia shakes her head.

"Four."

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __

The District Six girl, for all her attempts to explain her difficulties with the throwing knives, earns only a three. Largely because Cinian argues in her favor and has an advantage over the rest of us, as she doesn't touch wine.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __

District Seven has always been one of the strongest later districts, and Forester Montgomery-Cunningham is no exception. He throws an axe with enough force to embed deep in the sturdy target, and repeats the act with equal accuracy.

His careful, calm demeanor and obvious skills earn him a seven. Only Xenia and I are paying close enough attention to consider, though, as Cinian is mediating a loud debate between Falx and Justinion.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __

The District Seven girl, Asha Woodlawn, is no fighter. But she manages to hold the attention of a few, stringing a bow, taking aim, and making several shots to the target. More than one is near the middle ring. She tries a light spear, with similar success.

"Six?" Xenia asks after she leaves.

"Five," Aculeo counters, checking his clipboard. "Only average proficiency."

"Six _is_ average," says Xenia. And that is the end of that.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: __

Holland Love is a little on the pudgy side for a child of the districts, but he has an easy charm about him. He grins broadly, and looks entirely out of place holding a short sword. One might expect to see him playing with a puppy, or holding hands with a first girlfriend.

He is the first tribute who I feel any sort of sympathy for.

There is only one Avox called in to spar with him, and he is obviously out of his element. After a period a good deal longer than the one needed by the District One girl, the Avox's sword is on the ground, and so is the Avox. He taps the flat of his blade on the young woman's head before bending over to help her up.

"He's so… nice," Xenia comments after he is dismissed. "Very normal."

"He can use the sword, though," Justinion points out. "I say five."

"Five it is, then," says Xenia.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: __5_

_Perl Bolton, District Eight: __

The District Eight girl looks defeated before she even begins her presentation. Her eyes are puffy, and her face is haggard from lack of sleep.

She sets a fire slowly, which is always a popular choice among the pacifists. She throws some powder from the plants and minerals station, and we are mildly impressed as the fire turns yellow. Then, she toasts a few vegetables on a javelin and confidently eats the results.

We don't know exactly how to score her, but Cinian begins lobbying for a seven as soon as Perl Bolton leaves.

"No," says Xenia.

"She's shown that she can feed herself! That's a valuable skill anywhere, especially in the arena!"

"Two?" offers Aculeo.

"Listen to Cinian," I interject. "Maybe not a seven. But four? Five?"

"Fine," Xenia sighs. "Four."

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: __5_

_Perl Bolton, District Eight: __4_

_Tanner Faustus, District Nine: __

The District Nine boy joins us, his face unreadable. He picks up a pair of daggers, holding them more like tools than weapons, and demolishes a human-shaped dummy to shreds of cloth.

Apparently, he hasn't learned anything else in the last two weeks, because he bows, and we dismiss him.

"That was simultaneously impressive and disappointing," Aculeo comments.

"Still, that's halfway impressive. And the arena has knives. I wonder if he's a furrier?" Justinion replies.

"With a name like that? Why are you even asking? He's a _tanner_," snorts Falx, kicking back another glass of wine.

"Seven, then," Xenia proposes. No one argues.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: __5_

_Perl Bolton, District Eight: __4_

_Tanner Faustus, District Nine: __7_

_Auroch Vachel, District Ten: __

There is no way to look elsewhere as the District Ten boy presents his skill. He lifts the largest sword available, and cleaves a steal chain supporting a huge bag in two. Then, just as easily, he lifts the bag, which must be hundreds of pounds, and throws it a good ten feet.

No one says a word as Auroch Vachel retrieves the huge blade and tosses it, hilt deep, into the hardwood wall behind the targets.

His stare defies any of us to point out that he missed the actual target. He half-bows, Aculeo dismisses him, and he lopes out.

"Did you see that?" Cinian whispers, "Did he really do that? He's huge!"

Even Aculeo looks impressed, and he's the most difficult to sway of anyone at the table.

"Twelve! You have to give him a twelve, don't you?" Cinian continues, the only one at the table talking. "I mean, he could take any of them! Anyone we just saw! They don't stand a chance!"

"No one gets a twelve," Xenia says, finally. "We don't give twelves. Eleven."

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: __5_

_Perl Bolton, District Eight: __4_

_Tanner Faustus, District Nine: __7_

_Auroch Vachel, District Ten: __11_

_Lissom Henley, District Ten: __

After the showing by Auroch Vachel, it would be difficult for anyone to keep our attention. Lissom Henley doesn't. She is a slip of a thing, and the solid determination is misplaced on her young face.

She has a grips a thin knife in either hand, and goes through three sets of drills with mechanical accuracy and precision. It is obvious how she has spent her training period. She flips both knives in the air, and catches them, blades down, in opposite hands.

Almost no one is watching. She makes her way to the front of the room and bows. Xenia dismisses her, almost as an afterthought.

"She's a small one, isn't she?" Cinian comments.

"Youngest one this year. A thirteen," says Xenia.

"Well, she knows those knives pretty well," I say. "Seven?"

They look at me blankly.

"Epicure, she's tiny," Justinion points out. "_Really_ tiny."

"Six?" I counter. "Come on, we gave Tanner Faustus a seven."

"Five," says Xenia. "He has a chance at it. If you gave Tanner Faustus a shot at Auroch Vachel in his sleep, then there's a reasonable likelihood that he'd kill him. Lissom Henley would just wake the boy up."

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: __5_

_Perl Bolton, District Eight: __4_

_Tanner Faustus, District Nine: __7_

_Auroch Vachel, District Ten: __11_

_Lissom Henley, District Ten: __5_

_Pasque Lunette, District Eleven: __

"Pasque…" Xenia comments before he even enters the room. "Isn't that a girl's name?"

"It's a kind of flower," says Cinian. "Purple."

He doesn't look much like a purple flower. Maybe six feet tall, but much less well built than Dylan Ahava from Four. Auroch Vachel could snap him in two.

I look away and pour some more wine.

When I look back, he's done some sort of camouflage thing that isn't turning out very well. He tries the archery station, and manages a couple of hits, but nothing near the center. There's nothing unique about him.

As he leaves, Xenia gulps the rest of her wine.

"Three," she proclaims, rubbing her temples. No one argues.

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: __5_

_Perl Bolton, District Eight: __4_

_Tanner Faustus, District Nine: __7_

_Auroch Vachel, District Ten: __11_

_Lissom Henley, District Ten: __5_

_Pasque Lunette, District Eleven: __3_

_Skiff Child, District Eleven: __

While Skiff Child does some impressive acrobatics on the high bar, and beats a young Avox in hand to hand combat, almost no one is watching. A large pot of cheese fondue has been wheeled in, and Xenia only looks away from it to dismiss him.

He looks more than a little annoyed, but says nothing.

"Six?" Cinian asks, though even she has not been paying much attention.

Xenia shrugs. "Sure. Six."

_Diele Hobel, District One: __10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: __8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: __7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: __10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: __7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: __9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: __5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: __10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: __8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: __9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: __4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: __3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: __7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: __6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: __5_

_Perl Bolton, District Eight: __4_

_Tanner Faustus, District Nine: __7_

_Auroch Vachel, District Ten: __11_

_Lissom Henley, District Ten: __5_

_Pasque Lunette, District Eleven: __3_

_Skiff Child, District Eleven: __6_

_Sorrel Primrose, District Eleven: __

"Finally," Falx sighs, passing Xenia a fresh bottle of wine. "I need a break."

"Just one more to sit through," moans Justinion. "Why can't we just have twenty-one?"

"Send Sorrel Primrose in," Aculeo orders an Avox. Even he looks rumpled- I don't expect that I look any different.

Sorrel Primrose is a bit taller than the last tribute. She smiles to us, and, somehow, Xenia manages to smile back. So Sorrel Primrose is one of _those_ tributes. They make it so hard for us to kill them.

She throws a light javelin gracefully enough, and it embeds in the target. All of the spears she throws do, though none in the center. She does some flips on the high bar, and makes several basic snares that work perfectly as she sets them off one by one. She bows, smiling up at us again, and Xenia dismisses her.

"I like that one," she says. "A good end to the day. Everybody okay with a six for her?"

We murmur collective assent.

Aculeo is the first to stretch, standing up, brushing a few crumbs from his suit. His short, dark hair is slightly mussed, and he looks altogether ready to go to sleep. Of all of us, he is the oldest, at fifty-seven. Thanks to surgery and the miracle of modern medicine, though, he doesn't look a day over thirty.

"I really must be going," he says, and leaves.

A few others, the quieter ones whose names I don't know, follow him out.

Justinion, who is among the younger Gamemakers, gets up as well. He adds his clipboard to the pile by the door, and waves goodbye. He is in his late twenties, and reasonably attractive. Surgery definitely plays a part in his looks, as well, though all Gamemakers are required to abstain from the more outrageous trends.

Soon, Xenia, Cinian and I are left packing up, finishing our meals, and generally preparing to go. I notice that Cinian is crying, and walk over to her seat.

"What's wrong?" I ask, trying to smile reassuringly.

"They're going to die…" she sobs. "They're going to die, and it's my fault!"

"Is everything okay, Epicure?" Xenia asks, joining us. "Oh, Cinian…"

Just out from university, Cinian is only twenty-one. She has the remnants of past alterations- her pale blue eyes are inset with little crystals, blurred now, by tears.

"I'm sorry," she sniffs. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think it would be this hard."

"It's okay," Xenia whispers. "It only gets worse. But this is life. We serve our country."

Cinian dissolves in a fresh volley of sobs, and I shoot Xenia an annoyed glance.

"It's the truth," she mutters, looking sad as well. "I need to go home."

Once Cinian has composed herself, I help her out of the Training Center. I catch a glimpse of myself in the one-way mirror windows. Grey-brown hair that I really must get to coloring. Hairline wrinkles. A face that has seen forty-five years of life, twenty of them spent as a Gamemaker.

"Don't worry," I tell her, helping her into her hovercar, walking towards my own. "You get used to it."

* * *

That night, their names flash by on the television screen. Some sigh, some smile, some punch the air and cheer.

_Diele Hobel, District One: 10_

_Lycra Dietrich, District One: 8_

_Chalice Patel, District One: 7_

_Martial Sutter, District Two: 10_

_Lucian Gray, District Two: 7_

_Demetra Boise, District Two: 9_

_Lectic Riggs, District Three: 5_

_Dylan Ahava, District Four: 10_

_Gull Trillby, District Four: 8_

_Rippel Clark, District Four: 9_

_Iezsa Monet, District Five: 4_

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six: 3_

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven: 7_

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven: 6_

_Holland Love, District Eight: 5_

_Perl Bolton, District Eight: 4_

_Tanner Faustus, District Nine: 7_

_Auroch Vachel, District Ten: 11_

_Lissom Henley, District Ten: 5_

_Pasque Lunette, District Eleven: 3_

_Skiff Child, District Eleven: 6_

_Sorrel Primrose, District Eleven: 6_

The Gamemakers watch, too. Their reactions are smaller, barely even there.

They're used to it, by now.

**-x**

**Hooray for the longest chapter yet! I'm like a monkey, banging away at the keyboard. :P**

**I'm anxious to hear what you think of this. After all, I haven't decided the winner yet, or even, concretely, who'll go in the bloodbath.**

_This update's question_: What score do you think you would get, based on the tributes'?


	29. Interviews

**Interviews**

It's my first time sitting with the Gamemakers. We're so close to the tributes on stage. It's almost scary, because I already know them so well. From the biographies TGL has been running almost nonstop, to the training scores that I helped compile.

They have already done so much more than I ever could. And it hurts me to watch them walk into a death trap that I designed.

Now, I stand to learn even more about them. I'm worrying, though, even as I sit between Xenia and Epicure, the two of my compatriots that I trust the most. Epicure has done so much to get me here, on this board… his son was a friend of mine during university. And Xenia… who could not appreciate her? She's brought my arena to life… supported me… taught me so much…

It would be ungrateful of me not to sit through the games with them. Especially now that I can understand how hard it is. How many facets there are to the games, other than just 'right' and 'wrong'.

No one could ever replace Caesar Flickerman. But the man who joins the seated tributes onstage is obviously trying, though the pale ecru decorating his eyelids and lips merely gives him the illusion of a completely uniform color.

"Hello, and welcome to the interview portion of the Hunger Games!" he cries, standing up with his arms outstretched. "Now I know you're all anxious to get started- so am I! Now, let's meet the boys and girls here to make this year the best ever!"

This is Julian Feynman, the unfortunate chosen as Caesar Flickerman's replacement. He tries so hard to be Caesar… but he isn't.

This first District One girl walks up, in a shimmering blue drape that functions as a dress.

"Diele Hobel!" Julian exclaims with a broad smile. "The highest scoring girl in the arena! That's got to feel good."

She looks mildly embarrassed.

"Well, I've worked hard for this, for so long. I'm just grateful to be here."

"Absolutely. Now, I understand you'll be going into the arena with family?"

"_Step_family," she says, an almost imperceptible edge to her voice. "My _step _cousin Lycra."

"A regular family reunion, then!" he says, obviously attempting a joke. A few of the more inebriated members of the audience laugh.

"What would you call your greatest advantage in the coming games?"

"I don't give up, and I've got nothing more than my life to lose. The games _are_ my life. And I'm going to do my best in there, no matter what."

She's not playing the obvious angle- a little more relatable than most of District One tends to go. But she's not giving away much, either.

They continue with a bit of give and take, though Diele continues to be evasive about her plans and her family, which leaves very little to actually talk about. Finally, a bell rings, and she returns to her seat.

"Lycra Dietrich!" Julian cries, and the next District One girl, in a sparkly turquoise gown, joins him.

I am soon distracted by the fact that Xenia, once watching the proceedings intently, is muttering into the phone that is never far from her hand.

"I'm sorry, President. No. She's here. I'm very sorry. I'll send Epicure up with her. It's probably my fault. She'll be able to fix it. Sorry."

Then she hangs up, giving me a pitying look.

"Oh, Cinian, I truly am sorry. The President would like to see you in his office. Epicure will walk you there. It's about the arena, but… I'm sure it's nothing big. Don't worry."

I stand up and shoot a furtive glance at Lycra Dietrich, who is detailing her plans to kill the other contestants. As if she would help me… as if any of them would.

Quickly and quietly, I follow Epicure to the bullet elevator. A little screen shows the interviews going on, muted, but with subtitles. Chalice Patel is switching places with Lycra Dietrich, awkwardly tripping on one of her heels, and fairly falling into the interviewee's chair.

"Don't say anything unless he asks you a question," Epicure says quietly as we exit the elevator. "He is an unpredictable man."

I nod, though I have never met the President before… not in person. All the Gamemakers have seen him holo'd in for meetings, but… I'm scared. From everything I have heard of him. He has almost a cult following in the university. His exploits are exaggerated and twisted to no end, until the people who say 'I hear that President Norris gets his beard trimmed at Florham's!' are scoffed at, and those who swear he knows how to kill a man with a single finger are fervently believed.

Epicure types in a number on a keypad, and a bare stretch of wall slides open. Two Peacekeepers immediately converge on us, and I hear two more marching behind.

Somewhere ahead of us, a television is playing loudly. The interviews are on- Lucian Gray is being called up. I've missed one. Suddenly, the volume drops.

"Come in," the president calls, and a Peacekeeper enters another string of numbers into yet another keypad.

Yet another panel of the wall slides with a hiss, and we step forward, my heart beating so loud that, surely, someone must be able to hear it.

President Norris is behind his desk, watching the interviews. He seems relaxed and composed, tilting back in his chair, his feet on his desk. Upon seeing us, he nods sharply at the two chairs before him, and Epicure and I sit down. The Peacekeepers don't leave. I wasn't expecting them to.

He finishes watching the interview of Demetra Boise from District Two as if we aren't there. Finally, he presses a button and the television turns off altogether.

"I like that girl. She has interest value. The niece of a close friend," he comments, locking eyes with Epicure.

"Noted," Epicure replies, smiling thinly.

The President nods.

"Now, Gamemaker Liaison," he says, directly to me. "I need your reassurance that the arena is inescapable."

I swallow, as my throat goes suddenly dry.

"O-of course, Mr. President. I wanted to save the budget on the force field… we don't really need one, with all the precautions I've had the builders take. The only way out is certain death."

"And you are willing to stake Head Gamemaker Udine's life on this?"

"Yes, Mr. President. She is in no danger from me."

"I would like to give the girl from Two my personal recommendation," he continues. "And I have approved Gamemaker Grissom's muttations."

My stomach knots. I was so hoping that those beasts of Justinion's would not be released on my tributes… and, of course, the public. People will talk. But, surely, if the President has approved them, then he would approve of what the public will say.

"Thank you, Mr. President," I say.

"You," he says sharply, staring behind me with a raptor's gaze. I whip around to see the Peacekeepers having trained their guns on Epicure and myself.

"Don't move," one of them says. "Or they die. The girl goes first."

I freeze.

Slowly, President Norris raises his forearms.

"Put the guns down," he says calmly.

"I'll shoot her."

"I won't hurt you if you put the guns down," the President says quietly. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

No one moves. My heart is about to burst out of my chest. I want to run, but I know I can't. I just wanted to watch the interviews… but then, those tributes are in even more peril than I. So I feel bad, terrified, and shocked at the same time.

The President makes to put down his pen, and the fake Peacekeeper behind me cocks his gun.

President Norris breaks his nose.

I'm not sure exactly how it happens, but the President, who was standing behind his desk, is behind me as well. He disarms the fake Peacekeeper and shoots the other one through the shoulder. Epicure pushes me behind the desk. There is no scuffle, no more blows are exchanged.

"Come on out, Gamemaker Liaison, Gamemaker Goodwin."

Epicure is the first to raise his head above the shelter of the desk, and I follow tentatively.

"They get farther every year," the President comments, nudging the two unconscious fake Peacekeepers with the toe of his boot. Is he really wearing steel-toed boots?

President Norris dials a number on the phone at his waist. I make sure I am all right, and then I check Epicure for injuries.

"Yes," the President says into his phone. "No. I will interrogate them myself. I suspect that they are from District Eight. No injuries to the Gamemakers. I want a security overhaul."

He gestures at the door, and we leave, stepping over the prone forms of the two false Peacekeepers. I hold Epicure's arm to keep myself steady.

"Are you okay, Cinian?" he asks, as we board the elevator in time to see the last few seconds of the reaping.

"I'm… fine. But I'll have to watch the recap when I get home."

I try to laugh, but it comes out as a strangled sort of sob.

"This is what being a Gamemaker is," Epicure reminds me quietly. "No one would blame you for going back to work as a historian."

"No," I say. "I can't leave now. It's too late to back out. It wouldn't be fair to the twenty-one who don't have that option."

So many assassination attempts… on the President, on anyone in power. Panem has not totally recovered since the Great Rebellion. I know what Xenia would say.

_The Hunger Games are more important than ever._

_

* * *

_

Those who could not watch the interviews turn on their television sets in the night. The names flash onscreen, accompanied by the most memorable clip from the interview.

_Diele Hobel, District One, Score: 10_

"The games are my life, and I've got nothing but my life to lose."

_Lycra Dietrich, District One, Score: 8_

"Remember my name. It's the one to put your money on."

_Chalice Patel, District One, Score: 7_

"I miss them, every day. And I'm going to make my brothers proud."

_Martial Sutter, District Two, Score: 10_

"They might as well be dead already."

_Lucian Gray, District Two, Score: 7_

"There is nothing wrong with me. Rather, something went right."

_Demetra Boise, District Two, Score: 9_

"Of course I want to go home. It's not like I chose thi- Oh, wait. I did."

_Lectic Riggs, District Three, Score: 5_

"If I can survive a homicidal kitten on a daily basis, why shouldn't I make it through the Hunger Games?"

_Dylan Ahava, District Four, Score: 10_

"Sure, I miss District Four. But I plan to make it back."

_Gull Trillby, District Four, Score: 8_

"I may not have volunteered, but that doesn't mean I don't have a chance."

_Rippel Clark, District Four, Score: 9_

"The odds are in District Four's favor this year."

_Iezsa Monet, District Five, Score: 4_

"If I can take care of Gerrison, I can take care of myself."

_Rachel Goldberg, District Six, Score: 3_

"As for my older brother, he can go die. I don't need anyone."

_Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven, Score: 7_

"Who needs nicknames, anyway? I'm Forester Montgomery-Cunningham. But you can call me Forester Montgomery-Cunningham."

_Asha Woodlawn, District Seven, Score: 6_

"Who needs parents when you have a grandma? I'm better off without them."

_Holland Love, District Eight, Score: 5_

"Maybe Skiff and I could… polish them to death. All we'd need is a can of shoe lacquer. It would be a sad way to go, but they'd have a beautiful finish."

_Perl Bolton, District Eight, Score: 4_

"Her name is Moire. She isn't even a year old. I'll miss her the most."

_Tanner Faustus, District Nine, Score: 7_

"I'm not a bad bet, as such things go. Forester and I make a good team."

_Auroch Vachel, District Ten, Score: 11_

"Does this have a point? Or do you just like the sound of your voice?"

_Lissom Henley, District Ten, Score: 5_

"Don't count me out because I'm small. Find a better reason than that."

_Pasque Lunette, District Eleven, Score: 3_

"I'm not nearly as stupid as I look. I know why I'm here. To die."

_Skiff Child, District Eleven, Score: 6_

"I'm going home, one way or another. But I'll go down fighting."

_Sorrel Primrose, District Eleven, Score: 7_

"I can do it. But I need all of your help to survive."

When all is said and done, by the next day, the twenty-two children will meet in the arena. They will fight, and they will die. All of them.

Winning does not mean immortality.

**-x**

**Finally. Is anyone else excited for THE BEGINNING OF THE GAMES, NEXT CHAPTER? If you want to sponsor a tribute, be sure to say so in a review. You do not need to sponsor, but it is recommended if you would like to influence the winner.**

**I will allot you points based on the amount of support that tribute would be getting from the Capitol.**

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**(Edit: Effeffdawtnet will not let me center anything. I will try to fix this. c:)**

_This update's question: _I would like to sponsor…


	30. Highway

**Highway**

**Lissom (D10)**

"Is _everyone_ dressed like this?" I ask, annoyed at the flimsy pieces of stretchy brown fabric that look almost like underwear.

"No," my stylist says. "One boy and one girl in each costume."

He wraps a dark green towel round my waist, and puts a pair of sunglasses on my head.

"What is it?" I ask, looking in the mirror. I am somewhat stunned by what I see. It really does look like I am in my underwear, albeit with a towel for extra coverage. I rub the sore spot on my arm where the tracking device went in.

"It used to be called a swimsuit," Helix offers. "Very old fashioned. But don't worry. I've been told that every costume has advantages and disadvantages.

Well, it's obvious what the disadvantages are to this one. I've got so much exposed skin. Though, of course, the towel and 'swimsuit' are great camouflage colors. And the sunglasses ought to be good for something. The towel is fluffy and warm.

"Okay, thanks, Helix. I'll be thinking of you," I say.

"Would you like some water? Food?" he asks. "We have a few minutes."

I accept a bowl of beans and a glass of milk, though my throat is tight with nervous energy. I keep fidgeting with my towel. Helix warns me more than once not to lose it.

"It feels important," he explains.

Breathe, Lissom. Breathe. New lessons.

Number one. You need food. Get food, or you will die.

Number two. You need water. Get water, or you will die.

Number three. You need a knife. Get a knife, or you will die.

Number four. Run. If Auroch catches you, you will die.

Number five. Forget the pain. Don't let it stop you, or you will die.

Number six. Don't look back. Don't trip. Don't stumble. Don't fall. _Or you will die_.

"Lissom," says Helix, his voice almost apologetic. "It's time to go to your plate. You'll be incredible. I'm rooting for you."

I attempt a smile, which becomes a grimace.

"Thank you Helix. Again. For everything."

He reaches down, giving me a quick hug.

"Go, Lissom. I believe in you."

I don't look back. I don't trip. I don't stumble. I take my place on the plate, feeling it begin to move up.

Don't fall, Lissom. Don't fall.

_Or you will die._

-x

**Forester (D7)**

I'm in a brightly colored flower print shirt. My pants are a little big, but fit around the waist. There is a map in my pocket, which I have been forbidden to look at until the gong sounds.

The arena is very, very bright. So bright that, for a moment, I am blind after the darkness of the catacombs. Is it a bad sign that I feel only a terrible exhilaration? I think I'm ready. But I know I am wrong.

My vision begins to clear just in time for the announcer's booming 'let the games begin' thing. But I'm not paying attention to that. Just to the arena.

Before me stretches a road. It's a huge road, paved, many times the size of District Seven's dusty streets. There are four huge lanes, with a trip of grass and trees through the middle. For a long while, it is completely straight. The Cornucopia sits in the center. Maybe a mile away, though, it curves out of sight.

There is forestry on either side of the semicircle. That is where I will run, once I meet Tanner at the Cornucopia. We need weapons, food, water. We will have to be fast. The pavement is murderously hot.

The Cornucopia is full of things I don't recognize. And then, to one side, there is a huge, black _thing_. It has wheels, but the paint on the thing itself reflects the sunlight into my eyes. To the opposite side is something I have seen once before. A steamroller. It has huge, crushing wheels, and would likely seat four people.

Inside the Cornucopia sit piles of red and white paper bags. They seem to be full of something. There are two sets of keys, sparkling in the sun. I see a three picnic baskets, two large blue coolers, and another map. A black leather holster sits towards the steamroller. Something menacing and silver is stuck inside of it. I think I see another towards the back of the pile.

There are several brown suitcases. One silver briefcase. A tube-shaped bag full of silvery clubs. A black box bristling with red, yellow, and white wires. A workman uniform. A set of soldering tools. What looks like a telescope, attached to several bottles. With a trigger that tells me it is not at all innocent.

I decide to aim for the set of tools, and hope for something Tanner or I will be able to use. Then I'll go for the paper bags. Then I'll make a break for the trees.

My vision snaps into focus. After what seems, simultaneously, like a second and an hour, the gong sounds.

I run.

-x

**Rippel (D4)**

I know that, of the Careers, I am among the fastest sprinters. When the gong sounds, I run at the Cornucopia for all I'm worth, though I don't exactly know what I'm running for.

Demetra beat me there, but she barely seems to notice me. Knowing that there is nothing to stop her from throttling me, I jog over to the other side of the Cornucopia. I fall upon the cylindrical bag, quickly unzipping it. I pull out a golf club- something I recognize from Capitol television.

It seems to be the best weapon available, so I adjust to a fighting stance, holding it like a sword.

The boy from District Nine is running at me. I swing the club, which is a little heavier than I anticipate. His skull crumbles beneath the blow. I can't bring myself to hit him again, but I am certain that he is dead. One down.

The first kill goes to me. I feel slightly ill.

Dylan joins me, and I toss him the bag of clubs. He hands one to Gull, one to Diele, and one to Lucian.

Auroch snaps the girl from District Five's neck. Two down.

The tall boy from District Eleven runs for a picnic basket a few feet away from Dylan. He falls to a blow dealt to the base of the skull. Silently.

I killed someone. Now Dylan has, too. Three down.

Demetra and the District Three boy have convened at the other side of the cornucopia. He is working on something that looks vaguely like a Peacekeeper's gun, but isn't. It has some bottles attached to the base.

Lycra and Chalice join us. Dylan hands them clubs.

Martial hits the boy from District Seven with a clublike blow to the solar plexus. The boy goes down. He doesn't move. Four down.

The mother from District Eight tries to snatch a red and white bag, which, on closer inspection has an arched yellow 'M' emblazoned on the side. Lycra breaks her arm with her first blow, her neck with her second.

I wince. The District Eight girl falls, and she doesn't get back up. Five down.

Martial breaks the back of the only girl from District Eleven. He doesn't even have a weapon, but he has done more damage than the rest of us. She falls to the pavement in a motionless pile. Six down.

The boy from District Three is on to something. He hands the gun-looking thing to Demetra. She grins, and he grabs a tool belt before hightailing it to the reverse side of the Cornucopia, out of sight.

District Six, Rachel, runs up to the Cornucopia next. Lycra is after her when Demetra points her weapon at the girl. She pulls the trigger.

At first, nothing happens.

Then, a huge plume of flame shoots out of the barrel. Nearly ten feet long. We all look away as Rachel's skin turns black and, awfully, begins to char away. Lycra is frozen in place. She too is washed in flames.

Seven down. Eight down. She points the barrel towards us, and we scatter.

Behind her, the tiny girl from District Ten nips in and grabs a picnic basket. She bolts away, past the District Three boy who does nothing but cover his eyes and plug his nose from the stench of burning flesh.

"Lectic, get the car!" Demetra calls over her shoulder. She flicks a switch on the flamethrower, and more fire spits out. Gull's leg sustains a long burn, but he manages to duck out of the way.

The Three boy grabs the box covered in wires. He drags it over to the huge black car, setting to work, first on the door, then on something inside the car.

Martial has run out of victims. Auroch has disappeared, after caving in the skull of the District Seven girl with a blow. Nine down. Lucian darts into the Cornucopia, grabbing something I don't see as I dodge a burst of flame that singes my arm.

He runs somewhere behind the golden horn, but Demetra effectively keeps us from following him. Martial has other ideas. He barrels through the column of flame, after Lucian. There's a pause, as we are out of Demetra's range, but have no weapons apart from the golf clubs in our hands.

The last remaining District Eleven boy grabs two of the red and white paper bags, and the district Eight boy grabs another four. Demetra pays no attention to them, trying to somehow further the range of her flamethrower.

The District Three boy opens the back door of the car and begins to load it with the paper bags and whatever else he can get his hands on. Dylan seems to have a plan, and the pack somehow picks up on it as a whole.

We begin to surround Demetra, spreading out. She doesn't seem to notice much, messing with the knobs on the flamethrower. The District Three boy sees us, though. He closes the trunk.

"Demetra! Time to go!" he yells.

A shot goes off on the other side of the Cornucopia, but we are too concerned with Demetra's flamethrower. She jumps into the passenger side of the car, and she and the Three boy seem to scuffle over who drives.

He wins, and they begin to pull away from the Cornucopia, slamming the doors shut.

The huge car only travels at around ten miles an hour, and we could probably run beside it for a mile and keep up.

"Don't," Dylan says, and we run instead for the area from which the gunshot came.

Lucian is standing over Martial, who is not moving. There is a hole the size of a quarter through his forehead. Lucian is taking his pulse.

"Auroch has a gun," he explains. "Martial's dead."

-x

**Demetra (D2)**

"That was _awesome_!" I say, grinning. "How'd you get this thing to run without the keys?"

"There were keys?" Lectic asks.

I slap him on the back.

"Who needs keys anyway? I am a genius! I knew you were the right one!"

He doesn't say anything, but looks at the road intently. I roll my eyes.

"I'd like to see them follow us. We can drive all night!"

He still doesn't respond.

"Okay, what'd I do _this_ time?" I sigh. This has become a pattern. I will do something Lectic morally objects to, and he will refuse to look at me for a few hours, or until he builds up a sufficient head of steam to yell at me.

We sit in silence for about half an hour before the cannons begin to go off. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

"Don't you feel _bad_?" he finally asks.

"About what?"

"You just killed two people. In a really awful way."

"Not particularly. Lectic, those are two more people who can't kill me. Us."

"Look, it's just… wrong, okay? I know we've got to, but… you have to be… apologetic. They had lives, too," he sputters.

"You know which people I killed, Lectic? The world is better off without them. One had just killed a woman with a baby to go home to," I say.

"And you wouldn't have?"

"Not the way she did. Lycra Dietrich and Rachel Goldberg are dead because of me. I don't mind saying it."

"You're impossible," he says, looking back to the road.

I am dying to add 'and proud', but I don't. A few more minutes pass without conversation.

"I think we need to talk," I say. "You know, to keep ourselves from going crazy."

It's true. The road is completely empty. The clock on the dashboard reads '3:56', which promises more blinding heat as the car rolls along at 10 miles an hour.

"Okay," Lectic agrees. "Tell me about your family."

"My mom is a specialized weapons instructor. She taught me how to use a flamethrower a few years ago, after that one battlefield arena. Her name is Aquila. She likes arranging flowers, but don't ask why. Her brother, Joseph, is like twenty years older. She's the youngest of the family. She never met her brother who died in the games. She was born less than a year after."

He looks a little surprised that I said anything at all.

"She sounds… nice."

"Okay then, smart one. Tell me about _your _mom."

"She works at an automobile factory with my dad. She found Sparky. That's my kitten. She puts up with him. Her name is Colleen. She doesn't have much free time. She has a lot of sisters, and one sort-of brother who took care of her and her family for a long time. She still cries about her sister who died in the games."

With a start, he seems to realize who he's talking to.

"Why am I telling you anything? You just _killed_ two people."

I smile, but it's a halfhearted sort of smile as smiles go. I run my hands over the roof and windows of the car.

"Look, Lectic. This, right now, is the world. This car. And guess what? I'm the closest thing to a friend that's in it."

He stops the car, and looks at me. My neon orange jumpsuit, the yellow plastic helmet jammed over the mess that is my hair.

"Orange really isn't your color," he comments. "As your sort-of-friend, I think I need to tell you that."

"You should never wear overalls," I shoot back, grinning. "And that tool belt makes you look fat."

It's a decent start to the Hunger Games. And looking down the highway, I can almost imagine that it leads home.

**-x**

**Their pictures are in the sky that night.**

_**Lycra Dietrich, District One**_

_**Martial Sutter, District Two**_

_**Iezsa Monet, District Five**_

_**Rachel Goldberg, District Six**_

_**Forester Mongomery-Cunningham, District Seven**_

_**Asha Woodlawn, District Seven**_

_**Perl Bolton, District Eight**_

_**Tanner Faustus, District Nine**_

_**Pasque Lunette, District Eleven**_

_**Sorrel Primrose, District Eleven**_

**Dead.**

**Happy bloodbath, everyone. Be sure to go vote on my new poll, updated completely so that everyone can vote. And, sponsors, if you would like to send a gift to one of the survivors... now's the time to do it. At this point, you all have the capacity to send anything up to the price level of a full, warm meal.**

**Let's keep these kids alive...**

_This update's question_: What do you think of this year's bloodbath?


	31. Sociopath

**Sociopath**

**Holland (D8)**

Perl is dead. I hope it didn't hurt. I can't say I wasn't expecting one of us, at least, to go in the bloodbath. Just… it's so final. I can't think about her… how she is surely cold and still in a hovercraft… without feeling a knot tighten in the pit of my stomach.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Skiff asks, for what feels like the hundredth time.

"Don't worry about me," I say. "But we'll have to stop to eat soon."

We spent the night just a few feet from the road itself. There is something on the other side of the trees, which feels like open space. But we are too scared, though neither of us admit it.

"How about now," he suggests.

We've each been carrying three of the six bags we managed to get from the Cornucopia. They're not easy to carry, but they smell wonderful. I'm surprised we made it so long without eating from them. I suppose that by not opening them, we were trying to avoid our hunger.

"Okay," I say. "But only because you want too."

"It's fine," he says. "I'm just doing it because you seem hungry."

Simultaneously, we open the bags. They are much cooler than they were when we first picked them up, but we've kept them stable, and the contents have not spilled.

I pull out a cup of water that still has a few shards of ice floating in it. I take a long drink, and Skiff does, too, as he seems to have found his own. It's probably the best water I've ever had, but I force myself not to drink all of it. Instead, I carefully place the cup on the ground next to me and reach into the bag again, pulling out a little half-box full of… huh?

"What are these?" I ask Skiff, who is still sipping his water.

"Oh," he says. "Those are fried potatoes. Salted and cut into strips."

"They're delicious!" I exclaim. "Gosh, if we had these in District Eight, I'd be even fatter."

"Holland," Skiff says, shaking his head. "You aren't fat."

"Whatever you say." I shrug, dismissing him. "Seriously, I'm starting to think this whole thing is worth it."

"Because you're eating fried potatoes?"

"No, think about it, Skiff. If I win… and that's a huge if… Charlotte will get food like this all the time. The whole district will be better off."

He sighs.

"Let's be realistic, Holland. We're the ultimate underdogs, here."

"Remember the District Ten girl?" I remind him. "She made it through the bloodbath, too."

"Yeah, but she's alone. The underdogs have a chance. She doesn't."

"Oh, come on, Skiff. Everybody has a chance."

"Everybody _had _a chance."

"Well you're a downer, aren't you," I sigh, digging around in the white paper bag. "Hey, there's something else."

It's wrapped in yellow waxed paper, and still slightly warm. Inside, there's some sort of ground cooked-meat on a bun with slightly limp lettuce, a few fragments of onions, and a depressed-looking slice of tomato.

The whole thing smells greasy and delicious.

"Mmmm…" I sigh, tearing it in half and re-wrapping one part. "I guess this is what I'm eating today. Should help lighten the bag."

"Be careful," Skiff warns, looking at his own wrapped-up meat sandwich. "There's nutrition information on the side… it's full of carbohydrates. I learned about those at the edible plants station. They'll make you tired if you eat too many."

"Hey," I ask. "D'you want to see what's on the other side of the trees?"

"Sure. I've been wondering about it for a while."

We crawl through the underbrush until we are sufficiently shielded from the road to stand up and walk slowly. I pretend not to notice how much more noise than Skiff I am making.

Slowly, carefully, we begin to near the edge of the forest. Skiff moves bit faster than me, covering the rest of the distance. He pushes through the branches, and then disappears with a yelp.

I start to run.

"Skiff!" I whisper as loudly as I dare. "_Skiff!_"

"Don't… run… Holland…" he mutters from somewhere below me.

I push the branches aside and look down.

The drop is dizzying. At least five hundred feet. Maybe more. I want to throw up. Skiff, though, is clinging to a branch with both hands, as if it is his last tie to life.

In fact, it is.

"Here…" I sputter, trying to disregard the height. "I'll… hold on to this branch here, and pull you up."

Closing my eyes, I edge towards him, leaning over the precipice with one hand outstretched and the other clenching a sturdy branch. I feel him grab my forearm, and, finally, his weight as he lets go of his branch and I pull him back up.

We fall to the ground in a panting heap.

"You okay?" I ask quietly.

"I think so. Let's not go so deep next time, okay?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Do we have any other plans?" he asks.

"Well…" I look down at my starched blue uniform, now streaked with dirt. It came with a strange matching hat, and an empty holster of some sort. Then, of course, there's the badge.

It isn't very comfortable. Or very good camouflage. But, of course, I could be in a neon orange jumpsuit like Skiff. He has a helmet, but he sticks out like a sore thumb.

"I think our next goal is probably a few weapons. And an alternate supply of food and water. I say we keep heading away from the Cornucopia. There's got to be something other than pavement."

Skiff nods agreement.

"Eventually."

-x

**Auroch (D10)**

I think I've almost caught up to her. She's fast. I'll give her that. Running for her life. But she can only keep that up for so long.

Lissom is fast. But I am faster. I may have a good forty meters of forest to search on either side of the huge road, but she has to sleep some time. It's funny, though. Because I haven't slept since the night before the launch, and I'm still going strong.

She is young and sick. She can't make it as far as I can, or as fast as I can.

I'm wearing some sort of cut off black shirt with a fiery skull embossed on the front, and thick, sturdy jeans. I have a leather jacket that used to be slung over my shoulders, though I hold it under my arm as the day's sun beats down without mercy. She must be in the wooded area, somewhere. She wouldn't survive this heat on the asphalt. She is too small.

I crash through the woods without bothering to disguise the noise I make. No one there. I scan the trees and continue walking through for about twenty yards. Then I repeat the process on the other side of the road. I'll find her eventually.

No one can hide from me forever.

-x

**Lucian (D2)**

I think that Gull may suspect me. I am the first to admit my difficulties with physical cues, but he has almost made a point of avoiding me. I'll have to kill him, too. As of this moment, he is the most dangerous person in the arena.

Dylan and Diele have taken joint control over the pack, which now consists of them, me, Chalice, Gull, and Rippel. I know this because Dylan explained it, noticing my confusion at the goings on of the Career pack.

Someone is always on patrol. Right now, that person is Gull.

The ease with which I removed Martial is almost surprising. Auroch, the mysterious tribute with the eleven, was the perfect scapegoat. And no one knows how I got my score. That will hurt them in the long run. Martial was a hazard to me. He still is, but in a different way.

The discovery of my subterfuge would more than jeopardize my position in the pack, already a precarious one. The only District Two- the one who discovered Martial dead.

No, the next encounter with 'Auroch' will not be one I escape without injury.

Diele, who is dressed in black and leather, picks at her clothing. I watch the stray thread on her shirt unravel. Fascinating.

"It's really hot. Do you think we should work on a shelter, Dylan?"

He nods and adds a shrug, organizing the bags of greasy food in the Cornucopia, stuffing what looks perishable into the blue coolers full of ice. Enough food to last a very long time, assuming it doesn't spoil. Rippel is categorizing the weapons- the golf clubs, the soldering gun, some other items. She won't find either of the guns. I have hidden one in the wooded area, and one is tucked neatly into the pocket under my red apron.

Across my chest, a golden logo spells 'McDonalds'. I have a little nametag reading 'Hello, my name is _Lucian_' pinned to my red apron. It continues to captivate me momentarily whenever I glimpse it. Lycra was dressed the same way.

"I think I hear something," I say. No one even looks up from their tasks, except for Diele. But then again, all she seems to be doing is watching people. There is an interesting shell in the asphalt.

"Go check it out. Help Gull if you need to," Diele suggests. "Here."

She takes a club from Rippel's pile of weapons and hands it to me. "Take this. Make sure you bring it back."

I stare at her.

"Take the club. Use it to hit anyone you see who isn't Gull."

Oh.

I grab the club and walk off, until I am safely out of view, shielded by the enormous Cornucopia and the blinding glare of the afternoon sun. There is a squirrel in one of the trees by the side of the road.

Quickly, I set about looking for Gull. Trees, pavement, the strip of cement that divides the four lanes in half. The grass is lush and green. A few spindly trees are held up by wooden stakes that anchor them in place.

Movement in the woods. I turn towards it, my hand underneath my apron, inches away from the gun. It is either Gull, or another competitor. I grip the club with my left hand, the weak one.

There is a foot that seems to materialize in the forestry. I follow it with my eyes, up a leg, to a torso. Then someone is talking.

"Who is it?"

"Me."

"Oh. Lucian," the voice says. Gull, definitely. "Why'd you come?"

"I heard something."

"Another ally to kill off?"

"Could be."

"You really are clueless, aren't you?" he says, leaving the wooded area. He grips a golf club with one hand. "You just don't get it. There are still rules. You don't kill an ally."

I say nothing, just watching him.

"It really was you who did it."

I stay silent, watching leaves rustle in the wind.

"And that doesn't bother you? Not one bit? I mean, of course it doesn't. Nothing bothers you. You don't talk. You don't listen. You're not even looking at me."

He's wrong. I'm watching his mouth. It is moving very quickly. I am beginning to pick up on an accusatory note to his voice. Maybe I will have to kill him now.

"You aren't right. There is something really, really, wrong with you. I don't know."

His foot is tapping. He's in plastic shoes that only seem attached by two pieces of rubber. I'm not sure how they stay attached to his feet.

I should probably shoot him.

The others are too far away to hear his voice, but they will hear a gunshot. I sigh.

"Could you please stop talking? You're confusing me," I say.

He gives me a hard look. I stare at his face, trying to figure out what he will do next.

"They'll believe me," he says finally, and begins to move. "You're a sociopath."

Everything but his face disappears. My vision telescopes in, and, though I know he is backing away, he seems to be standing perfectly still. Time is mine. I draw the gun. Aim between his eyes. Squeeze the trigger.

I don't hear the shot, but I watch as a hole appears on his forehead. The skin ripped apart. At first, he simply stands there.

Time starts up again, and his body tumbles to the ground. I hear the cannon faintly, and come back to reality.

Just in time to turn the gun, and shoot myself through the left arm. I toss the gun with my right hand into the wooded area, and I believe it may make it over the precipice. If it doesn't, then Auroch will have, of course, abandoned it.

At such a close range, the bullet has passed clean through my flesh. I examine the wound. Very little damage to the arteries. A clean entry and exit. I'll live.

"Lucian!" someone yells.

I look up from my wound to see Rippel charging towards me.

"Where is he? Where did he go?" she cries.

Wordlessly, I point into the woods. She tears off without another word. Diele runs up, panting.

"What happened? What happened to Gull? Are you okay?"

I point after Rippel, applying pressure to my bullet wound with my right hand.

"We'll catch him," she says, picking up the golf club I dropped. "We'll get him for this. When Chalice gets here, she'll be able to help you."

She runs off, too, in the direction I gestured to. Dylan follows her.

Watching Gull's prone form, I take in the bullet hole through the center of his forehead. Interesting.

I decide that I rather like the word 'sociopath'. I really must ask someone what it means.

**-x**

**His picture is in the sky that night.**

_**Gull Trillby, District Four**_

**Dead.**

**I wouldn't label Lucian a sociopath in technicality. Can anyone give me a definition? No gifts have yet been recieved. But Lissom's knife, a joint investment by two sponsors, is on the way. Any other sponsor gifts are welcome, and price increase will be accounted for. Just let me know in a review what you'd like to send in.**

_This update's question: _Have you voted in the new poll?


	32. Driving

**Driving**

**Lectic (D3)**

"Wake up. It's your turn to drive," I whisper, tentatively nudging Demetra in the side. "I'm falling asleep at the wheel. You need to drive for a bit."

She doesn't budge, and I'm not sure what to do. I can tell she's alive- oh, I can tell. You don't make noises like that unless you're sleeping, or happen to be a cat in the act of being slaughtered. Why do I get the snorer?

"Demetra, get up." I nudge her again.

I shouldn't blame her for hitting me in her sleep, but she does. The snoring stops.

"Go'way Celer... just got to sleep…"

My jaw smarts from where she slapped me, but I'm not sure what to do. She sleeps with a death grip on her flamethrower, and I worry that further action on my part might elicit a fiery reaction.

She resumes snoring.

I carefully reach over her seat and yank the flamethrower away.

That wakes her up.

"What's going on?" She scrabbles around where the flamethrower used to be, then sits up, hitting her head on the roof. "Damnit, where is it? Lectic? What's going on?"

If I wasn't mildly scared for my life, I might be struck by how comical she looks, hair in complete disarray, blinking wildly, grabbing for the flamethrower that isn't there. I hold it behind my back, out of reach, until she calms down.

"Don't _do_ that!" she hisses, snatching back her weapon.

"Sorry. I'm about to fall asleep myself. Lucky the snoring kept me up."

"I do not snore!" she cries indignantly.

"And you would know?"

She mutters something that sounds profane under her breath as I pull the slow-moving car to a halt.

"I need to switch out or I'll end up killing us both," I say.

"Well I'm tired too!"

"Because you spent all day talking!"

"You call it talking, I call it keeping you from nodding off in the middle of a highway," she says defensively.

"Okay, I'm sorry I woke you up. But I don't want to stop in the road in the middle of the night. Anyone could find us, and, you know…" I trail off.

"Murder us in our sleep?" she supplies helpfully.

"You got it."

"Okay, well, believe it or not, I'm just as pro-staying-alive as you are. Let's switch out. But be fast. It's cool outside."

We hurry around the front of the car, Demetra brandishing her flamethrower wildly. I only breathe again once I'm in the passenger seat. She revs the engine, giggling to herself.

"All you're doing is scaring me," I sigh.

"Ruin my fun, will you?"

The huge car starts to move again, and I reach into the backseat for some food. It's still odd, always having something there to eat. I'm better off in the Huger Games then I was at home.

"Would you like some food?" I ask her, eating one of the fried potato bits bite by bite.

"Nah, it makes me sleepy. I see what you mean by how… hypnotic the landscape is, though."

She starts mashing buttons randomly.

"No! Don't press those!" I cry. She stops mid-reach.

"Will the car blow up?"

"I don't know… I don't know what they do. So don't mess with the car. I worked really hard to make this thing move! "

"Well tough luck, then. You're not the driver any more. You can't tell me what not to press."

With a delighted laugh, she goes back to pushing buttons. Finally, one seems to satisfy her. She fiddles with a knob, and a speaker begins to make garbled noises. She plays with it some more, and a beat materializes- music. The car is making music.

"How did you do that?" I ask.

"I 'pressed those', oh all-knowing mechanic. Continue to enlighten me with your inflated sense of cautiousness… maybe I can make it give us food!"

"Cars don't work like that," I object.

"You didn't think cars could make music a second ago, now, did you?"

I decide not to argue that yes, in fact, I did. I was just hoping she would be more cautious in the future. I mean, I don't know this car. I've never learned precisely how it works. It isn't like the battered little vehicle we have at home, though the basics are vaguely similar.

For all I know, there is a button on that dashboard that seriously blows up the car.

"Could you turn that down, please? I'm trying to sleep," I ask, after nearly half an hour of Demetra dancing around in her seat to the blaring music. The clock on the dash reads '2:18', and it's pitch dark outside.

"But I'm trying to stay awake!" she complains.

"Most of the Capitol viewers are asleep right now. Even if you fall asleep, there's very little likelihood of running into much trouble."

"Fine," she whines, pressing buttons until one turns off the music. "But don't think this is for you. I'm totally self-preservationist and all that."

"Of course," I mutter, already half asleep. "What else would you be?"

Sleep is too enjoyable to last long, of course.

I wake up to the deafening honk of Demetra leaning on the horn of the car. She has the window down, and seems to be screaming obscenities. I think I'll replace them with chemical elements.

"What the _antimony_ do you think you're doing, _selenium_? _Ruthenium_ you! If you can't drive, stay the _arsenic_ off the road! Can't you see that _neodymium_ _chlorine_ cut me off?"

She punctuates each 'element' with a punch to the car's horn.

"What's going on?" I mumble.

Demetra replies with a string of words that any element would be ashamed to be associated with. I look out the window to see a red hatchback rolling past us at a little over fifteen miles an hour.

"What time is it?"

She screams at another passing car. The windows are too tinted to tell if anyone is inside, but if there is a driver, I can't help but think that they've probably gotten the message by now. I look away as a rather rude hand gesture enters the conversation going on out Demetra's window.

The dashboard clock says '7:49'.

"Rush hour," I mutter to myself.

In District Three, the factories and schools all open at 8:00. Though most everyone walks on foot due to the District's size, the walkways and roads are completely blocked with throngs of people who don't want to be late for work.

The occasional car you do see is going much faster than fifteen miles an hour. The accident rates are more than doubled during rush hour.

"Will this thing go faster?" Demetra shrieks, kicking the pedal. "They're beeping at me!"

"Demetra, get off the road."

"No! That would be giving up!"

"We don't want a crash out here. There's no guarantee I'd be able to fix it, especially in this traffic."

"Then maybe you should consider _learning how_ instead of telling me what to do!"

"Pull over," I say as calmly as I can. "This is about survival."

She looks at me murderously and pulls off the road. Traffic immediately speeds up. I breathe again, though I didn't even know I was holding my breath.

"That was exciting," she says mildly.

"Yeah," I agree, as a car speeds past us.

"You know something, Lectic? It's just the third day and you're already driving me crazy."

-x

**Lissom (D10)**

They're coming. The Careers. Auroch. They may not be close, but they're coming. As surely as my basket of food will be empty some day, they are coming.

My supplies, which I have sorted through over and over again, are as follows.

Five pieces of fried chicken in a large container that reads 'Tupperware' across the top. I've already eaten one of the original six, including the bones.

A whole branch full of green grapes in a plastic bag.

A plastic fork, plastic spoon, and plastic knife. Basically useless.

A covered bowl of mashed potatoes.

A dark green plastic bottle of water, half-empty.

One fabric-lined picnic basket. Useful for carrying things, but makes me clumsy.

There is a bitter knot of resentment that forms in my throat when I look at everything. I did everything I needed to. I followed every lesson. I have food, water, and, yes, even a plastic knife.

But how is any of this going to help me?

This morning, the highway came alive with cars. I was grateful not to have been travelling on it, and hopeful that Auroch had.

It's nearly noon, and the road is quiet again. Unearthly so. Not a single car in sight.

At my best, with the basket, I can travel a little faster than walking pace for over an hour. Right now, I am at my worst. I tried to shelter in a tree for the night, but discovered that climbing is more difficult than clips of Katniss Everdeen make it look. I scraped my leg scrabbling at the bark, and, in the end, I was no safer on the first branch than I was on the ground.

In fact, I was at Auroch's eye level. Even if he went blind, he would run into me.

I stayed there all night, shivering under my towel. What else could I do? My knees hurt so much from running all day, I was filthy, cold, and utterly exhausted.

Now it begins again.

I jump off the branch, landing on my feet, and I catch my picnic basket as it falls. My towel is wrapped around my shoulders. I adjust the basket in my arms for aerodynamics, and I begin to run.

The scratches down my leg are easy to ignore and, inexplicably, I don't feel hungry at all, Instead, I focus on the core of my body, burying the ache that wracks my torso, and I move faster.

Bushes, trees, the occasional think I don't recognize. I don't make much noise at all, as I am barefoot, having ditched my sandals on the… second day? Maybe. I'm not doing a very good job keeping track of time.

My shoes caused me to trip, just once. I threw them over the cliff.

Let Auroch track me with that. A pair of black flippy-floppy shoes five hundred feet down. I hope he tries to retrieve them.

My methods for relaxation aren't working. Against my will, I can feel myself slowing to a walk. I groan. I've only been walking for half an hour, and I'm already exhausted. I decide to sit down and make myself eat another piece of chicken. I figure it will spoil the fastest.

I'm on the ground, picking at what looks like a wing, when the parachute falls. At first, I don't notice it. Then it hits me.

"Ow!" I wince at the light blow to the head. I'm more surprised than hurt.

Carefully, I unwrap the gift, stuffing the parachute in my basket. It's… a knife. Not a fancy one, but a perfect, balanced knife that fits in my hand like it was made for me.

I want to cry, but I'm not sure why. Someone… maybe more than one person… is looking out for me. They want me to live- they aren't in this to see me die.

I may not have an ally in the arena, but I have one outside of it. I have a friend. Somewhere.

The gift means that I am going to live. That I maybe have a chance. That I can finally stop running.

I can fight back, now.

Though the afternoon is blazingly hot, a little shiver runs through me. I have a chance. I have a chance. I have a chance. There is an opportunity for me, however small, to see District Ten again.

I have a chance at life.

**-x**

**It's day three. Half of the competitors have been killed. Eleven children remain in the arena.**

**One sponsor gift has been recieved- thanks to eac12897 and i heart manga 89. **

**I would also like to inform all of you of the sequel to this sequel, which will be... a Submit a Character. It will be a challenge for me to get to know characters that are not my own, and I would love for you to participate in it. To submit a character, head on over to my story 'With a Capitol 'G'' for the submission form and the guidelines.**

**Much love to all of you!**

_This update's question_: What gender tribute do you more often submit?


	33. Déjà Vu

**Déjà Vu**

**Diele (D1)**

After we lost Gull, we figured that something had to change. First of all, we have to take down Auroch. He seems to be targeting the District Twos so far, so Rippel has volunteered to watch Lucian around the clock. She and Gull were friends, and it's easy to tell that she wants to be the next one to encounter Auroch.

Would I do the same thing if it was Chalice? Probably not. But then, I'm different than Rippel. And Chalice isn't like Gull. But she is my district partner, so there's a certain amount of loyalty there. She's from home.

I don't think we have to worry about Lucian siding with Demetra. He isn't quite the same as the rest of us. Sometimes I wonder if it would be better to be like him- he doesn't seem to notice the ugly bullet wound in his arm, though Dylan won't even consider giving him a job.

He's 'injured' after all. It's a little hard to watch him sit in the Cornucopia, staring at his nametag, though, while I work with Chalice to equip the steamroller. We are no District Threes, but we're better with the mechanics than Dylan and Rippel.

Dylan tried to drive it on the first day, but something overheated before he made it 200 feet. Thank goodness it wasn't any further. All of us, except, of course, for Lucian, had to work for over an hour to push it back to the Cornucopia for repairs. I hate this. I'm itching to go out and _do _something. But then again, Demetra and her District three friend are probably miles away by now. I'm not really desperate to go after them, anyway.

Demetra was the only other girl my age in the arena. She wasn't all that bad, just… snarky. We're all homicidal, to a degree, so I can't completely blame her for that.

But then again, I want to go home. And I'm already halfway there, right? Eleven people are dead.

"Time to get moving on the other ten," Dylan says, reading my thoughts.

"You know it," I sigh. "As a point of interest, this engine makes no sense. How the heck does this even move?"

He shrugs.

"Beats me. Cars don't work well in Four. Too humid. We're divided up into sectors, and you don't leave your sector unless you intend to walk. The Center is, of course, in the center."

I tilt my head, wondering why he's mentioning it.

"That's why I don't know Rippel and Gull. Didn't know Gull. We're all from different sectors."

"That makes sense. We don't exactly have sectors, but there's a definite class divide. One school for the jewelers and importers and historians and such, and one for the workers. Chalice and Lycra and I went to the same school."

He watches me poke at some wires that look melted for a second.

"Sorry about your cousin."

"Better her than me," I say, more harshly than I intend to. "Glad I didn't kill her, though."

"What _are _we going to do about Demetra?" he asks suddenly. "She'll come back eventually."

"Or maybe she won't," I suggest. "Maybe she and her District Three friend are tracking Auroch… or the little one… or the two boys."

"If she was tracking Auroch, she would be somewhere nearby."

"Yeah," I agree. "But we can hope for them to take each other out or something."

We both sigh.

"It's unlikely. He got Martial, he got Gull, and he almost got Lucian. Maybe it's the guys he's after? Maybe he'll spare you and Rippel and Chalice or something."

"Now that's just crazy. He's only had a _shot_ at Martial, Gull, and Lucian. Besides, isn't he after his district partner? If we stay alert, we should be okay. He's not right under our noses, that's for sure. Rippel and I combed those woods."

Lucian walks up and asks whether he can open up one of the greasy food bags.

"Good idea," Dylan says. "Dinner time."

My third dinner in the arena. Strange to think that I haven't yet killed anyone. Nice, though.

Chalice is setting up some sort of portable fire pit to warm the food up. It's pretty unpalatable, cold. She skewers several potato bits with a stick, and begins to roast them over the flames.

"I think this will make them taste better," she mumbles, looking away when Dylan meets her eyes.

"No, Chalice, thanks. It's great," he stutters, looking to me and Ripple for help. We shrug. I seem to be the only one Chalice isn't afraid of.

I think that bothers Dylan. He's used to having people like him, which I can understand; he's difficult not to like, once you talk to him for a bit. For Chalice, I am the exception rather than the rule.

We eat on paper plates Chalice found in one of the picnic baskets. Each one had different things. Cutlery, plates, and napkins in one. A variety of somewhat tasteless dried fruits and nuts, powdered health shakes, and glasses in another.

Everything with the potential to spoil goes in one or the other blue cooler. What we couldn't fit, we've been eating these first three days.

"Three days," Rippel sighs. "It's been three days."

"A little more than that. We got here at around noon," Dylan replies, shrugging. "It doesn't really matter. Eleven people are left, and five of them are us. Six to go."

"Those are the numbers that matter," I say glumly. "Six to go. Ten to go, really."

Dylan and Rippel make faces at me for reminding them, but Chalice doesn't look up. Lucian is in his own little world, watching an ant walk across his shoe.

"It's the truth," Chalice says quietly. "We've got to die too."

"Better not to think about it," Dylan suggests, and I nod.

"What are we going to do about those… six?" I ask.

"Is it too much to hope that Demetra and Auroch take care of them?" Rippel shrugs, pulling a fried potato piece from her stick.

Dylan shakes his head.

"We're not much of a Career pack if we don't at least try to help it along."

"Well, we're a good three days behind," Rippel counters. "What are we supposed to do? I mean, Diele and Chalice are no mechanics. No offense to them."

I shrug.

"We're faster than them. We're better fed. We can travel longer," Dylan says. "We'll be able to catch up. Maybe not in a day, but those two boys? We'd find them within the week."

"We can't abandon the camp," Chalice says glumly. "And Lucian isn't in good enough shape to do that much travelling. I could stay with him? Help him get better?"

Her last two statements are phrased like questions. Dylan smiles at her.

"We won't abandon you, Chalice. Wherever we go, you're coming with us."

"We can't very well leave Lucian alone. What if Auroch comes back?" argues Rippel.

We sit silently for a second, thinking. I watch Lucian crush the ant with two fingers.

"Why don't you stay with him, Rippel?" Dylan asks unexpectedly. "If Auroch is coming back, it's going to be after Lucian. And I know how you feel… about that."

Rippel smiles thinly.

"Let's ask Lucian," she suggests.

He is staring intently at the squashed ant.

"It's interesting," he says. "They keep their shape almost entirely. It's only the legs that stop moving. That's the only way to tell when they're dead."

We exchange looks.

"Lucian…" Dylan begins somewhat awkwardly.

"I'm happy to stay with Rippel," he says simply, and goes back to the dead ant.

Rippel sighs.

"I had better get a crack at Auroch," she mutters, stuffing the rest of a greasy burger into her mouth. "I will kill him. I will kill that bastard for killing Gull."

"Then it's settled," Dylan says, as if he is oblivious to Rippel's speaking. "Diele, Chalice and I will leave tomorrow morning. Rippel, will you take first watch with me?"

She nods.

"Chalice and I will turn in early," I say. "We have a long day ahead of us."

I set up my little camping cot, and the thin towel that I use as a blanket.

"Good night, Diele," Chalice whispers. "And thank you."

"It's nothing, Chalice. Really. Good night."

-x

**Skiff (D11)**

"How much do we have left?" I ask Holland, who is still waking up.

"About half a cup of water each," he sighs. "Some potatoes. I have half a meat sandwich."

"You can have some of mine. I still have a whole one left."

"Skiff, seriously. I can afford to lose some weight. Don't worry about me just because I'm a few months younger than you."

"I'm not worried about you."

"Suuuuure."

We're packing up our last two food bags to start walking again. It's already blisteringly hot, and my throat feels like slightly damp leather. Holland isn't holding up much better. Yes, I do worry about him. I worry that he is going to die and leave me to keep walking alone. I don't want to die on my own.

It's selfish, but I'd rather die first.

Wait, isn't that kind of crazy? I don't want to die at all. But it's kind of obvious that neither of us is equipped to be the victor. We have no weapons, and we're generally poor at using them if we did. We are low on food, and we'll be out of water by the end of the day.

"Stop being so depressed," Holland sighs. "You're making me feel sad just looking at you."

I shake my head.

"Ugh. Let's get walking. There has to be something…"

"We've been saying that for nearly four days, now," he reminds me. "How about we think about something else?"

"Fine."

"Like… Lissom. She's still alive, isn't that a good thing?"

"No."

"Oh, why not? She's an underdog too. You have to admit it. She got the same score as me, she got just as much food as we did, and she's only got half as many mouths."

"She's got Auroch after her."

"Who's to say he's not after us, too?"

"He would have caught us by now. She's fast. I'll give her that. We're about average. And Auroch will be searching pretty thoroughly. I'm guessing that they have some history."

Holland sighs.

"Well, I'm imaging her as… hmm… how about, say, the sister of a former girlfriend? He's out for revenge, motivated by love… wants to make his girl sorry for jilting him all those years ago. And he's also a secret agent, working to escape the arena-"

"Holland, now you're just being stupid. First of all, Auroch would have been playing that angle from the beginning. Second of all, Lissom mentioned that she was an only child in her interview. And third of all… secret agent? Really?"

"Uggh, Skiff! Stop ruining my story with your _logic_!"

I grin.

"Well, if you don't want me messing around with it, at least think. Weren't you paying attention during the interviews?"

"No…" Holland says. "Perl was crying again by District Four. I didn't want her to feel abandoned."

"Auroch and Lissom definitely have history, but it's got nothing to do with love or whatever. This is seriously just inference, but I would say that she got the best of him, somehow. And he doesn't really seem like the sort of guy you can get away with tricking."

"You're admitting that she's smart enough to trick him? Wow, big concession there," Holland mutters.

"Not necessarily… and yes, it is a big concession. All I'm doing is explaining why we're in less danger from Auroch than she is."

"So you're saying that, if he finds us, he's not going to kill us? Cause you know, Skiff, that seems reeeeeaaaally likely."

"What I'm saying is that we're not the ones he's looking for."

"Well, don't get cocky. I'm sure we're number one on the Careers' list."

-x

**Demetra (D2)**

"Lectic, my legs have gone numb."

"Mm."

"I seriously can't move my toes."

"Mm."

"We ought to stop and rest soon."

"Mm."

"It's chilly in here. I think I'll start up my flamethrower."

"S'nice."

"Lectic, snap out of it!" I bark, smacking his arm sharply.

"Wha-what? What's going on?" he sputters, looking from side to side. "Where are we? Who are you?"

"I'm Demetra, and we're in a car that you damn well better pull over if you want to live!"

He pulls over sharply. For the first time in days, the car is not moving at all. I wrench open the door and attempt a step out. Too soon, or… something. My leg crumples as it hits the ground. A little yelp to the other side of the car tells me that Lectic is enjoying similar success.

I fall into a little heap, and struggle with my legs, which stubbornly refuse to move.

"Sorry about that…" a weak voice from opposite me sighs. "I was driving for… a long time. You know what that's like."

"Yeah, well don't expect any heartfelt moments from me until my legs work again."

"Can you crawl?" Lectic asks. "If I can, I'll try to join you. This side is very exposed."

I continue to test my legs, which would probably work better if they were literally made out of jelly. There's an awful, rough, dragging noise from Lectic's direction.

"Are you crawling, or strangling a small animal?" I call.

"Very funny. I'm starting to think that our drive all day and all night idea wasn't such a good one."

"No duh. How long do you think it'll take before we can walk again?"

"Well, speaking as someone with no upper body strength worth mentioning, I have no clue. But you probably have a chance to pull yourself upright without leg support."

I decide to give that a try, trying to drag myself to a standing position. My legs are just dead weight, but thanks in full to years of rigorous training, I pull myself hand over hand back into the passenger seat of the car.

Lectic drags himself into view, crawling like one of the army recruits during their camouflage drills or whatever.

"Once you make it over here, we're relatively safe. I've got my flamethrower," I say, waving it triumphantly.

"Say what you want about my overalls," he gasps. "These things are sturdy. See? The knees are barely ripped through at all."

I whistle to myself.

"Does _someone _need first aid."

"Is it that bad?" he asks plaintively as I root through the glove box for our little first aid kit.

"Imagine a gaping wound… full of little bits of asphalt."

"Is it that bad?" he repeats.

"Nope. Worse."

He mutters something under his breath.

"Did you just curse?" I ask, delighted.

"Uh…"

"You did! You know, that's the first time I've heard you curse!"

"How about that first aid?" he sighs.

"You're_ learning_! I'm so proud of you!"

"On second thought, why not just kill me now?"

"Not likely. Get your butt up here so I can fix your knees."

He sighs and continues to drag himself over, until he's so close that I could pull him up. I watch him struggle for a second before I do.

"How are your legs feeling?" he asks, wincing as I begin to disinfect the first of his wounds.

"Can't feel them. But by your face, I'm guessing you're getting sensation again?"

"Unfortunately. Could you distract me?"

"How?"

"Well, you told me about your mom. And that's kind of all. What else? What's your brother like? Have you ever met your uncle?"

"Um… well, okay. I'm not a total sadist, you know. I don't exactly love watching you spaz like that. Okay, we don't talk to uncle Sev much. He lives in District Eleven. He's my dad's brother. They don't like each other much. Very different people, you know. Kind of like us."

"Well, that goes without saying. Am I your dad or your uncle?"

"I'm more my uncle, so I guess that makes you my dad. He's the black sheep of his family. He trains first aid professionals for the mines. Kind of a pacifist. Yeah, like you."

"I guess that's a good thing. I mean, you trust your dad."

"Don't get me wrong here, Lectic. I don't trust you as far as I can throw you."

"How about your mom's brother? Is he a Peacekeeper?"

"Nah. We see him even less than uncle Sev. I think he's a mining technician or something. The guy never stops working. He doesn't get along with my grandma at _all_. She disowned him or something, a really long time ago."

I accidently poke him with the tweezers.

"Ow! Sh-… shoot!"

"Nice save there, Lectic."

"Please be careful!"

"Alright, fine. I'm running out of stuff to talk about. I don't know most of my extended family very well, okay?"

"What about the one who died?"

"We don't talk about him."

"Have you seen his games? I mean, you talk about watching old games all the time. It'd be hard to completely forget a tribute."

I go back to sanitizing, and he quiets down.

"Okay, yeah, I've seen him. And he looks nothing like me, for the record. So forget about déjà vu. We're just related. It's not like I'm going to die or anything."

"Well, of course not. What was his year?"

"Umm… sixty something? The year before that Cashmere girl won. What about your aunt?"

"We don't have much to do with past games in District Three."

"I know what you're like, Lectic. You've seen them. She's your _aunt_."

"Yeah, okay. I've seen them. It's funny, though, because in her games, she allied with the District Two boy. I always thought that was a really awful idea, because, in the end, he was credited with her death. But I guess he's also part of the reason she made it so long."

I'm not really listening, and I've just started bandaging the first of his knees.

"You really did a number on these things," I comment.

"Got to keep the audience entertained somehow."

"I've been wondering about that. Either someone's been having a really interesting couple of days, or we're going to be in trouble in a few hours."

"You're right on that one," he sighs. "Careful with those tweezers. How are your legs feeling?"

I remove the last bit of rubble from his knee, disinfect it, and bandage him up. Then, experimentally, I put some weight on my legs. They hold, but I'm wobbling even though I'm supported by an arm on the car.

"A bit shaky. You?"

"I don't really want to think about walking."

"Then let's switch places. I'll drive for a bit, and then we can stop again," I sigh, keeping a hand on the car at all times as I begin to walk around to the driver's side.

Lectic slams the passenger door shut. I try to stretch my legs, and I wiggle my toes a bit before I turn on the car and begin to move.

"Hey, Demetra?" Lectic says suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for patching me up."

"Sure."

"No, really. We've both been really on edge for the last few days. I'm sorry if I've been a bit of a jerk."

"I hope you're not expecting me to apologize as well."

"Not really. But you should know that, just because your uncle indirectly killed my aunt, I'm not holding anything against you."

Wait… what?

**-x**

**It's the afternoon of the fourth day, and something is definitely brewing…**

**I'm sorry for my few-days-late-ness, but I've now got the batch of characters I need for the sequel to this story. It's called 'With a Capitol 'G'' in keeping with my 'capitol' theme.**

**Thanks to all the submitters of characters, and all of the reviewers, and the readers in general. I am nothing without your support.**

_This update's question_: who do you think will be the next to die?


	34. Close

**Close**

**Auroch (D10)**

Where are they? Anyone- anyone! I can't keep walking, keep seeing the same thing. I can't do it. I have to find them- her? Them? Who am I looking for?

Her. Of course. I have to find her. But I'm getting sloppy. Didn't bother to check the left side, where I heard the voices. Knew it wasn't her. She's too far ahead. Not that far. I'm close, though. So close.

I haven't slept in a long time. Don't think it's helping my brain. Easy thinking is getting hard. I should probably find something to eat. She'll have food. She's too weak to go without it. I have to find her. Find her. She has food. I know I can. I'm close.

I can hear her, now.

Closer than I think.

She's running, too. Her gait is lopsided. She's carrying something. Stealing from me. Again. I'm so close. I can hear her breathing, fast, ragged. She's on the right side. I knew she would be on the right.

Her footsteps are lighter than mine, but I can hear them. That means she can hear me, too. She's running, running, running. Running out of time.

I'm tired. I've been running for a long time. I've been running farther than she has, even though she runs ahead of me. I'm so close. So close.

Twenty feet. I can see her now. Fifteen feet. She doesn't look back, just keeps running. Ten feet. She drops the basket she's holding. I easily clear it, but she is faster now. Five feet. I could almost, almost, reach out and-

-x

**Lissom (D10)**

He's found me.

I whirl on my heel, trying to dart back to the road, but he's closed in. Every viewer in the Capitol is on the edge of their seat. He's reaching out, and I'm too slow. I've never been too slow before.

He has me by the neck. And this time, he isn't letting go.

But he's made a mistake.

Auroch, who has an eleven, who has tracked me through miles upon miles of a seemingly endless arena, has made a mistake. He is strangling the life out of me. My throat is caving in. I can't even gasp for breath. His huge hand has completely encircled my neck. But he's looking at my face, not my right hand.

And he doesn't see my knife.

I don't bother with struggling. I raise my arm, and without even trying, I slash left, slash right. Stab. Flip. Stab.

And again.

Slash left slash right stab flip stab. Slash-left-slash-right-stab-flip-stab.

His grip loosens, and I don't stay to watch the results. I run. Like I've never run in my life. My throat is on fire, my stomach is on fire, my skin is on fire. I can't breathe enough.

My hand is covered in blood. I can feel it. Some of it is what I've coughed up. I hear something. Far away, somewhere beyond the blood that rushes through my ears. I think it's- a gunshot. No. Maybe. Yes. No. It's a cannon. Or maybe it isn't. I'm not going to stop running.

Not for anything.

The muscles in my arm are clenched tight. I can't release the knife. I don't want to. I will keep running as long as I have to. Auroch can't catch me. The Capitol can't catch me. I am flying. I am flying so fast that I can't even see. I don't have to. No one can catch me. No one can stop me. I will run and I will run until I am safe. Safe. Safesafesafesafesafe.

And then I hit the tree. I don't feel it, but I can see it, like in slow motion. I can't stop myself. I'm too fast. My head snaps back with the force.

And the world goes black.

-x

**Dylan (D4)**

No cannons yet today. One, loud ricocheting burst of noise, though. It's easily a few miles ahead, maybe more. Not a cannon, we think. We'll just have to wait a few more hours for the pictures in the sky.

Diele has been crazily alert since we heard the unidentified blast. If I pause for too long, or Chalice hiccups, she tenses up, grips her club, and doesn't let go for a full minute. I'm sure she's worried about whatever made the noise. Chalice seems to have some idea, but considering that she hasn't spoken to either of us since we set out in the morning, it's unlikely we'll get her opinion.

I stop. Diele's jaw tightens.

"Would anybody like to stop for some food?" I ask. "I'm hungry."

Lack of food often makes me edgy, and I can only hope it will help my comrades to relax a bit. Diele doesn't say anything, but Chalice nods. I smile, and she looks away. That bothers me. Why doesn't she like me? I have a little mental file of all my interactions with her, and none are blindingly negative. I might blame my somewhat intimidating, score, but Diele has a ten as well, and Chalice won't leave her side.

I set out three of the meat sandwiches. One for each of us.

"I wonder how Rippel and Lucian are doing," Diele finally asks, finishing her sandwich and rolling up the wrappings.

"They'll be fine. Rippel is great, and Lucian's not nearly as stupid as he presents himself," I say.

"He's very smart, really," Chalice interjects quietly. "He just isn't very good at reading minds."

I'm too surprised that she is talking to laugh.

"Uh, Chalice," says Diele, "No one can read minds. Unless you're not telling me something."

Chalice blushes crimson, and turns to her sandwich.

"It's… it's… not like that," she sputters. "But-well-I… see, I can look at your face and see that you aren't angry with me. I can tell that you're really tense right now, because your jaw is so tight."

Diele nods, and I wonder how much of that I do without realizing it. Reading minds. Huh. I can't think of ever doing it specifically, and I don't know if I could if I tried.

This also happens to be the longest thought that I've ever seen Chalice string together.

"Lucian doesn't do that. He doesn't look at faces. People are just… objects."

"How can you tell?" Diele asks, and Chalice blushes again.

"Well, I've been paying attention to him for a few days now. Because of his arm. He never looks at me, or at Rippel, or at you. He focuses on whatever he finds the most interesting."

Diele shudders.

"Like ants."

"Yes, I think ants matter to him. I don't know why."

"I don't really want to understand Lucian," Diele sighs.

"I'm not sure anyone does," I say, and the conversation ends as Chalice goes back to staring at her shoes. I miss Rippel already, not to mention Gull.

"Don't feel bad," Diele says quietly, as Chalice walks away to dispose of our wrappers over the steep drop forty yards into the forestry. "It really isn't you."

"At least I have_ someone_ who talks to me," I sigh.

"It's not that she doesn't like you. You're very likeable. Don't worry."

"What can I do to help her? She just doesn't feel comfortable. She needs- she needs-"

"You don't know her, Dylan. All she needs is to know that there are people around her who care about what she has to say. We're not the same people who killed her brothers."

"Wait… she's _that_ Chalice? The one from the interviews?"

"How many Chalices do you think we have in District One?"

"Well, I thought it might be a common name. Really, no kidding? I remember her brothers."

"Yeah, and I'm sure she remembers them quite vividly."

I sigh, sitting down and putting my head in between my knees. I'm getting a headache from all this sun.

"That was a bad year for the Careers," Diele says, sitting down next to me.

"All of those were bad years. Does she think we're like that? Are we?"

Diele doesn't answer.

"I'm back," Chalice says, and we both jump.

"Oh, hey, Chalice," says Diele, her voice awkward.

Chalice doesn't say anything, but her thoughts are obvious in her betrayed expression. _Talking about me? Planning to get rid of me?_

So the day has been counterproductive so far. Lovely.

"Well, I think we ought to get moving," I say, a little too loudly.

"I agree." Diele nods. Chalice doesn't say anything, but obediently begins to load up her picnic basket. Diele takes the cooler, and I grab the three cots we've tied together. We won't be returning to the Cornucopia for a while, so I think we may have taken even more supplies than we left behind. Lucian and Rippel aren't big on eating, but Chalice and I definitely are. Diele is somewhere in the middle about the whole food thing.

As we walk, Diele whistles something that sounds at least a little optimistic.

"What's that one?" I ask.

"It's called 'Listen to the Mockingbird'. It's a really old song. You don't know it."

"Oh, come on. I'm not totally uncultured," I sigh. "It sounds nice. Cheerful."

"It's about a man whose wife dies," Chalice says quietly. "He buries her in a valley by a stand of weeping willows."

"Then scratch that, I _am_ totally uncultured."

Diele laughs and goes back to whistling.

"I wish I could whistle. My lips are always too torn up."

She stops again.

"Oh, why?"

"The elements, I suppose. And I chew on them. That doesn't help."

To give an example, I blow a thin stream of breath, my mouth pursed. The sound is faint and barely noticeable, especially compared to Diele's whistle.

Chalice giggles, surprising everybody including herself.

"Don't worry, Dylan, your mouth is just fine. Some people aren't made to whistle."

"What, and you're perfect now?"

"Now, I never said that," she chides, and returns to whistling.

"What are the words?" I ask. "The tune sounds so happy. They've got to be outrageously depressing."

"No, not really," says Chalice. "It's not really a death song. It's a remembering song."

I'm about to engage in an argument over how depressing death is when I realize who is talking and stop myself.

"How does it go?" I ask.

Chalice blushes furiously, as she usually does when people pay attention to her.

"Well… I'm not a very good singer. Maybe Diele could..?" she trails off.

Diele stops whistling again.

"Okay, Chalice, you can sound like a piece of steel being ripped in half and you'll still be better than me. I sing like I whistle."

"Very well?" I suggest, and she smacks my arm.

"You can be so clueless, Dylan. Come on, Chalice, please?"

"Oh, but… everyone is listening! _Everyone_! I can't!"

Diele puts an arm around her shoulder and shoots me a 'be-quiet' look.

"It's okay, Chalice. We're not forcing you. Really. It's okay."

I adjust the cots I'm carrying, feeling exceedingly awkward. What's wrong with me? I _never _feel awkward. Diele is whispering with Chalice, and I'm simply feeling left out. Uggh. I clear my throat.

"If we move quickly, we can catch up with that blast thing by late tonight. That means fifteen miles an hour, steady pace. What do you two say to that?"

"That sounds good, Dylan. Chalice?"

Chalice is red as a rose-fish, but she manages to sputter out a 'yeah'.

"If_ either _of you need to slow down, that's fine," I remind them.

Both the girls nod, and I grin.

"Then let's go."

**-x**

**No deaths yet. I guarantee one in two chapters, though.**

**Reviews are amazing, and they make me happier than you can imagine. :)**

_This update's question: _What is your weapon of choice?


	35. Enmity

**Enmity**

**Rippel (D4)**

"Do you want any food?" I ask Lucian, chewing a handful of somewhat disgusting 'healthy food'. The package says it's guaranteed to give me energy, which I'll need to deal with Lucian.

"No."

He hasn't even looked up from the little bug skittering across the pavement. Lucian seems to like ants, or killing them, at least.

"Well, you haven't eaten all day, and goodness knows, you don't sleep, either."

"I sleep when I need to."

"But that's never when I'm watching!" I huff out a breath of air and try to concentrate on chewing.

"You are distracting me."

"From what?"

"From what I want to be doing."

I'm not even going to ask. I will never get anywhere with Lucian. Why couldn't Chalice have stayed? I wish Auroch could have managed another shot to the head… I wish I still had Gull. I miss him.

At least he entertains himself. There are so many worse people I could be with. Though I can't think of any of them. I shut my eyes against the glare of the sun on the asphalt. Five days. It's been five days. And half of us are dead. Halfway home. I am halfway home.

Eddy will be happy to see me, and he'll hopefully give me some time to recover before he starts driving me up the wall again. The twins will get their own rooms, and I will be far, far away from the ant-killing invalid who can't seem to make himself useful.

"Lucian," I say, keeping my voice even as he inevitably doesn't look up. "Lucian, I'm going scouting. I won't be more than a shout away."

He pays no attention to me.

"That means that if someone or something is about to shoot you, run you through, club you to death, eat you, or trample you, you call for me."

There- at the mention of those lovely ideas, an almost imperceptible nod.

"I'll be going, then."

Of course, he doesn't wish me luck, which would slightly lessen how much I despise him. He doesn't tell me to throw myself off a cliff, either. Drat. Then I would have a legitimate reason to club him to death.

I don't know why I hate him so much. It isn't as if he's really given me a reason to. In fact, he tends to act as if I'm nowhere near him. It's like being with a cat. He expects me to feed him and keep him safe, but gives nothing in return. He isn't human. I'd rather be alone than around someone so… wrong. What _is_ he thinking? Planning my death? Planning for us all to die? Or just thinking about ants, as he says he is?

"Rippel," a thin voice from behind me calls. "Rippel, there are ants."

"I know that!" I reply, straining to keep the irritated note from my voice. Not that he would recognize it.

"More of them."

"How many more?" I ask, feeling the panic begin to well up in the base of my skull.

"I haven't counted. But I estimate between three thousand and three thousand five hundred."

"Don't count them!" I cry. "Don't count them! I'm coming! Are they on the supplies? Lucian, keep them away from the supplies!"

"Why not? It would be useful to know their numbers."

"Kill them, Lucian!"

I'm too far away, but getting closer. Close enough to see them swarming around his feet, him completely oblivious but for the few that have made it to his hand.

"They don't bite," he says. "They die easily."

"Kill them! Kill more!" I am close to screaming now. We need that food. He may not need it, but I do. He may not be human, but I am.

He carefully smashes one at a time between his fingers, with surprising speed. I reach the supplies a few seconds before the ants do. We don't have much, and everything fits in one huge blanket that Dylan devised into a sort of pack before he left. I can lift it, but not easily.

A few inches off the ground is all I need.

With a stilted, awkward gait as the pack bruises the backs of my calves, I begin to run, the wave of insects behind me. I don't stop for Lucian. The ants don't bite, but I would stake my life on the fact that they do eat.

No cannon sounds from behind me, which could be a good or bad sign depending on how you see Lucian.

I reach an achievable level of the Cornucopia, towards the tail. Only five feet. I've climbed up a rope ten times the height, hand over hand. I can do this.

No, I can't. The pack sends me toppling off balance, diminishing my lead on the ants. I scramble back to my feet, knees and dignity bruised. Every motion I make sends me reeling with a wave of adrenaline. I have got to save this food. There is no option. I have got to climb this thing.

My brain conveniently filters out the idea that ants may be able to climb as well.

Hand over hand, I drag myself and the satchel up the hot metal wall. Not as hot as it has been, though. Clouds are beginning to blot out the harsh sunlight. I manage to get my feet off the ground, hopefully smashing a few ants as I do so. They've reached my toes.

I climb higher, stretching every muscle in my body further. It takes several minutes for me to make it to the mouth, twenty feet high. From there, I can see Lucian.

Methodically smashing one ant at a time.

He is barely visible beneath the insects, but, two fingers held out, he continues on the course of action that, apparently, he has been repeating since I began my assent.

The adrenaline begins to drain from my system, and I want to scream. I was saving our butts, possibly falling under the weight of our pack, possibly getting myself killed, and _he just sat there_!

Thunder peals across the sky, which has turned grey and downy with clouds. No more sun. I should be thankful for the respite from the heat, but all I can think about are the thousands of insects that _must _smell the food on the Cornucopia and will come climbing up to get it any second.

And I can't do anything! I am so powerless, up here, weighted down by survival which rests squarely on my back.

Lucian continues to pinch ant after ant, and I shiver in the cold burst of air that accompanies the change in the weather. A fat droplet of rain hits me square in the eye. Another lands on my knee. All around me, I hear the pattering of water on… everything. The ants begin to change. Their calculated movements become frantic and erratic. The rain falls faster, soaking me as I attempt to shield the supplies with my body.

He doesn't seem to notice. The ants, gone insane in the falling water, fall one by one from his outstretched fingertips. I can see his eyes again. They are retreating, who knows where to. The tide of tiny bodies is ebbing away.

A few are left squirming, caught in raindrops or puddles and abandoned by their fellows. Lucian stands up, kills the two ants stuck on his wet shirt and bends down, squishing the stragglers one by one.

I nearly fall off the Cornucopia, partly with relief, and partly because the rain has made it slick. I climb down carefully, which is not easy. I'm tired, wet, and sore.

"Where were you?" I hiss, depositing the supplies in the still-dry mouth of the Cornucopia, thankful that the ants have not retreated there. "Where were you?"

"Down here," he replies, looking utterly bemused. "I was killing them."

"Why weren't you helping me?" I am not willing to let go of… of… everything! He left _me _to save both our skins!

"I killed them. Was that not helpful?"

"No! No it wasn't!" I sputter, though he has me at that. I did tell him to kill the ants.

"I did what you said," he reminds me, looking down at the little bodies. "I killed four hundred thirty-six."

I heave a sigh of resignation.

"Okay, yes, Lucian, you did exactly what I said. Congratulations. Excuse me if I'm not setting up a victory party in your honor."

"It doesn't merit a celebration. I just killed four hundred thirty-six. That's all."

How am I supposed to live with him?

"Do you want some dinner, Lucian?" I ask, walking over to the pack.

"No, thank you," he replies. Of _course _not.

-x

**Lectic (D3)**

"No deaths," she sighs. "No more deaths. They'll be getting restless. I can only hope we're interesting enough. You don't happen to know how to juggle, do you?"

"I'm trying to drive, Demetra."

"And you're doing a hell of a job of it. See? You're about to run over that… thing."

As if to prove her point, whatever it is makes an ugly _thump_ as I drive over it. Demetra smirks in a self-satisfied way.

"The rain makes it hard to see, okay? I've got, like, no visibility at all."

She's rolling her eyes, but I look away. My last nerve is wearing thin, and the rain has me tense at the slickness of the road. We haven't had a chance to discuss the games of the past, though, for me, at least, they are a wild dog waiting patiently in the back seat of the , and the _whumpta-whumpta _noise coming from the tire that blew out a few hours ago, contibutes the the air that is thick with nervous energy. It's right cacophonous outside the car, with the drumming of the rain, the _whump_ing of the exploded tire, and a new sound.

It sizzles.

"What's that?"I ask Demetra, at the same time as she asks me.

It isn't like air hissing out of a tire. It's more like acid eating through aluminum-steel composite, which I've seen before, in an experiment in school. The stuff just ate a hole clean through the sheet of metal, all the while making that awful noise, like cooking meat.

That is definitely the noise I am hearing now.

"We have to get out of the car," I say, as calmly as possible, which is not very.

"Whyyyy?" Demetra whines. "It's cold and wet and the car is nice and warm and what if my flamethrower dies?"

"Get out of the car!"

"Fine! You're such a jerk! If you were anyone else, I would seriously set you on fire!"

I open the door, slamming it behind me. The rain is frigid on my skin, and the cold cuts through to my bones. I shiver. It's getting dark. The sizzling noise is coming from the side of the car that I hit the animal think with, and it is accompanied by the terrible smell of burning rubber.

"Holy-" Demetra murmurs.

"What is it," I ask cautiously. "Is there a fire?"

Of course there isn't a fire. Not in this rain. But if I'm on edge, she's got to be seconds away from chucking her flamethrower at my head.

"What the hell did you run over," she breathes. "The tire… you need to see this."

I walk around the front of the car as a bolt of lightning tears through the sky.

"Shoot," I mutter. "What is this?"

Whatever I ran over was once some kind of animal. The greasy red-brown stains must be blood. There are a few smoking strands of brown fur stuck in the tire treads.

Blood doesn't dissolve rubber. Blood shouldn't be eating through the tires. Blood doesn't smell like all the cat sick in the world set on fire.

This stuff does.

Demetra bends down with one finger outstretched.

"Wait!"

She freezes.

"Don't… touch it," I caution.

"What do we do?" She says plaintively. "I have no clue how to fix this. I'm so tired. It's wet. It's cold."

She buries her head in her hands.

"Lectic, I want to go home."

What am I supposed to say to that? She's suddenly sobbing into her hands, and I know she's still perfectly capable of killing me if I put a toe out of line and, say, pat her shoulder. It's hard to think of Demetra as a person when she's so unlike me. But everyone has a moment when everything is wrong, I guess.

I got mine out of the way a few seconds after I volunteered.

"I'll fix it," I say. "The rain will stop. We'll dry up. We'll get a new tire. Two new tires. I can fix it. I promise, I can."

There's not much more that I can do, other than watch her cry.

"I will get them," she hiccups. "Those miserable bastards. I will kill them all."

"If anyone can do that, it's you," I sigh, not knowing whether she is talking about the Gamemakers or the other contestants.

"You're alright, Lectic."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'll let someone else take care of you."

"That's right sentimental of you."

"Don't think I'm going soft," she warns, straightening up. I catch a glimpse of her face, which is mottled pink and slightly tearstained. "I'm not. I'll still organize it. But I won't be the one to do it, 'kay?"

"I think that's the best offer I'll get."

She sighs, and smiles a tight lipped smile.

"Where are we, anyway?" she asks suddenly. Our little friendship-bonding moment is definitely over.

"I don't know. I can take a look at the car while you look around, but I haven't really had time to take a good look at our surroundings."

"Well, there's something yellow and red and glowing over that way. I think I'll go check it out," says Demetra, sniffing into her sleeve. "I hope it involves food. I'm starved."

I'm about to remind her that we have plenty to eat when she picks up her flamethrower and disappears into the rain and the darkness. For the first time in the arena, I am well and truly alone.

It's a little frightening.

The tire continues to sizzle, and I bend down to inspect it. The red-brown stain is smoking around the edges, and air is beginning to hiss from the wheel. Before I can really begin to judge what it is, and excited whoop distracts me.

"What is it, Demetra?" I call into the darkness. "Find something?"

"Sure as hell did! Do you think we can push the car about five hundred feet?" she replies excitedly. "It's a gas station! Just off the highway! They have tires! Come on, I'll help you get the car going!"

The air crackles with energy as another bolt of lightning singes the sky, but I manage to ignore it, getting behind the car with Demetra as she runs up.

"Should this work?" she asks, shouldering up to the car.

"I don't know… the ground is mildly sloping down, and the surface is very slick, so… maybe." I can't keep the excitement out of my voice. "If we're careful not to push it too fast. But I've never even tried to push a car before. I have no clue how this works."

"All the better." She grins. "We get to make it up as we go along. I'm good at that."

With a groan and a hiss of air, the car moves about an inch forward.

"I think we can do this. I actually think we can do this!"

-x

**Auroch (D10)**

It's very cold. Wet. I can't move. My skin and clothing are stiff with dried blood, even as I am pounded by cold rain. Why can't I move?

Yesterday comes back to me.

How am I alive? How did I survive? Did she?

My blood has congealed over my torso, but I can feel the tips of my fingers. They hurt. I try to flex my hands, but I can't. I am cold to the bone. My face feels like ice. I can barely feel my nose, and blinking is a chore.

How am I alive? How am I alive? How am I alive?

How can I kill her, now? I failed before, when I was intact. But now, I might as well be dead myself, lying in the wet leaves. Wet… I can feel how wet it is. I can feel the cold. I am still alive. As long as I can feel the cold, the wet, the pain coursing through my abdomen, I am alive.

I feel dizzy, and I attach myself to that feeling. While I can feel, I can live.

With effort, I can move my fingers. It takes a long time, though, and makes me dizzier. I don't think I will be able to move again for a while.

Something lands on my stomach. I can't see very well in the dark and the driving rain, but it does not seem malicious. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, I make myself move to grab it. The first time, my fingers, still slick with blood, slide off. Eventually, though, I manage to gain a purchase on the paper- the wrapping paper- the silver wrapping paper.

I rip it open with difficulty, bringing my other hand carefully up to my chest to complete the task. There is a bottle of cloudy brown liquid that smells something like the chocolate milk I had at one point in the Capitol, but only faintly. I don't know if that is because my senses are failing, or because the drink is mild.

The drink is difficult to swallow because of its overwhelming richness. While I have been subsisting on water for the last… few days, at least, before my failed attempt at killing her, this is even thicker than the Capitol confection.

I drain the bottle, but slowly. It takes a long time for the silky liquid, mixing with rain water, to slide down my throat. Then, I feel tired. Even more so than before.

My eyes are getting heavy, even blinking away the gelid rainwater. I am so tired… the world is spinning… I want to sleep. And I will.

Lissom Henley can wait to die until tomorrow.

**-x**

**Kind of a long chapter. This took me a while to write, as I seem to have acquired a social life. How did that happen?**

_This update's question_: Auroch or Lissom?


	36. Found

**Found**

**Holland (D8)**

"Is she moving?"

"Breathing. Barely."

"Well, obviously. Should we walk away, or what?"

"Sounds good. Girls are trouble. She doesn't have any food. I checked."

Skiff is standing with his arms crossed, looking a little annoyed at our discovery. The girl from District Ten is lying in a damp, prone heap at the base of a tree. Her head and neck are mottled with ugly dark bruises. She looks very small, wearing barely any clothing, spidery blue veins showing through a membrane of skin that looks like it affords little to no protection from the world.

"She'll be dead in a few days, without supplies," I argue, with very little conviction.

"Maybe less," Skiff suggests. "So much the better. Let's not get involved. In case you hadn't noticed, unless we get some supplies of our own, we'll be joining her in the hovercraft."

"Leaving her wouldn't be right."

"Nothing about this scenario is right, Holland," says Skiff, exasperated.

"If she and that girl from your district had found you, you would have wanted them to help you."

"Why are you defending her? All she's done is to fall in a heap, and suddenly you're jumping to keep her alive."

He is growing irritated with me, and I with him.

"Well, maybe it's because she's managed to get just as far as we have. She deserves a chance, too."

"She's had a chance! And look where it got her!"

I am getting upset. My face is burning red, and my clothing feels tight. I almost want to hit him, because he is being _so thick_. We're all from the last four districts. We're bottom of the barrel. We have to look out for each other. We are the underdogs.

The girl takes that prime moment to open her eyes.

You always expect that when someone wakes up from a faint, or being knocked out, or whatever happened to her, it will be gradual. But, no, her eyes snap open, and she has rolled into a fighting crouch before Skiff and I have time to react.

For the first time, I notice a bloody knife clenched in her right hand.

Skiff and I take a step back, enmity forgotten. We are allies again. She is a threat. A wild animal. The look in her eyes is vaguely feral. She is cornered, in pain, and disoriented. She has a weapon. She scored about as well as the two of us.

Right now, the wrong move could get all three of us killed.

"Where is he?" she rasps. "You aren't with him, are you?"

I shoot Skiff a glance, and he shrugs.

"…hi," I stutter, the first thing that I think of. "My name is Holland. What's yours?"

Inwardly, I hit myself. The introduction is far too ingrained in me. I never expected that any other greeting would ever be called for. It seems to work, though. She has been caught off guard, and eyes me warily. Even more so than before.

"Holland…" she growls, as if she is testing its safety. "I'm District Ten to you."

Skiff doesn't introduce himself. I don't blame him.

"Ha, so… umm… would you like some water? I mean, no offense, but you don't sound too good," I blurt, my mind racing furiously. Kindness seems to disarm her. And I really want her to put down the knife.

She quivers a bit in her crouch, looking from me to Skiff. One of her legs gives in, and, startled, she hits the floor.

'_Weak_', Skiff's eyes say. '_Let's leave. Now. Before she gets up. You've screwed this up enough already._'

"Here," I say, ignoring him, bending down and extending what remains of my last cup of water, though a knot tightens in my stomach as I do so. _Last cup of water…_

After forcing herself back into a sitting position, she reluctantly takes the water, not letting go of her knife and not taking her eyes off of my face. The little brown irises dart back and forth over my expression. She takes a slow sip of water, gagging as it goes down. Her eyes water.

"Are you okay?" I ask, and Skiff rolls his eyes. When she answers, her voice is still rough, part of which I can attribute to her District Ten accent. The rest must be a result of the bruising around her throat.

"No," she says, but she leaves it at that.

"Okay, its fine if you want to, but, um, unless you're planning to kill someone, could you, um, put down the knife for a minute?"

One half of her mouth tightens in a lopsided smile as she raises her bloody right hand, knife and all. Skiff yelps and takes a further step back. She hisses- no, really, hisses- at him, and unclenches her hand with what looks like a lot of effort.

The knife doesn't fall.

"Stuck there," she explains, her voice like sandpaper. "Tell your friend to calm down."

Skiff looks more frightened than I would expect him to be, as I am usually the one labeled 'wuss' for being afraid of something innocent. District Ten is no bunny rabbit, but I don't think she's crazy. And I think she has just as much of a sense of debt as we do, probably more, than me, at least.

The water I gave her is what will, hopefully, keep me alive.

"Can we talk?" he hisses, dragging me away. "Holland, this is a bad choice. It's hard enough getting along with you all the time. I have a vote in this too, and I say we leave. Now. I'm in here because of a girl, and I will not die because of one, too!"

"Skiff, you're being absurd. She's hurt. We win points by helping her. And I don't think I can back out of this. I don't want to. It will be easier with another person."

"Easier for her to stab us in the back!"

"She won't do that. She already owes us for not killing her or walking away. We stayed."

"You think I don't understand that? Holland, I don't trust her. Please. Don't be an idiot. Just this once, be a little less… female."

I punch him in the stomach. It probably doesn't hurt him much, but the surprise is evident on his face. All of this has been building, building, building since we came to this stupid arena.

"You owe me, too, Skiff. I could have let you fall. Don't call me an idiot. If anything, stop being one yourself."

Without looking back at him, I turn around and rejoin the District Ten girl. She is picking at the congealed blood that bonds the knife to her hand, but she looks up at my approach.

"I'll kill him," she rasps. "Just as sure as he'll kill me."

"Give Skiff a chance," I say, sighing. "He's got his own problems. Will you travel with us?"

"I won't sleep while he guards."

"You have every right to be suspicious. But please, just give him a chance. You'll die without us, though you may well die with us. You have the most to gain."

She is weighing her options, giving me a cold stare.

"I was doing fine before you came."

"Auroch will come back. You've been out for at least a day, by the look of that blood. The three of us have a real chance against him, one that you don't have alone."

"I was doing fine before you came," she repeats.

"This will benefit all of us."

She looks angry at being given such a choice, and she rips the knife from her right hand with a grunt and a little gasp as some papery skin comes off with the weapon.

"You don't have a plan, do you?" she sighs, looking resigned to her fate as our ally. I smile thinly.

"No, we don't," says Skiff, walking up from behind me. He still looks resentful. "We're just walking. The Careers are faster than we are, and they'll be following us by now. We need supplies, or we'll dehydrate within a day or so. Holland gave you the last of our water."

"I think I have some sponsors," she admits reluctantly. "But I lost all my supplies back when Auroch-" She stops herself before she finishes the thought. "We can't go back for them now. I didn't kill him. He'll recover fast."

Skiff and I exchange glances.

"How far behind you was he?"

"Less than a mile. Maybe more. I don't really know. But we need to move. He got hurt worse than me, but he'll heal faster, too."

Her face is deathly grim and serious. Come to think of it, I've never seen her with any other expression. She and Skiff are two of a kind. Must be why they get along so poorly already. There's only room for one emotionally challenged ally…

"Then let's go," says Skiff, trying to regain authority.

"After you," rasps the District Ten girl.

-x

**Chalice (D1)**

"We need to kill him," Diele says simply. "Before he wakes up."

"I agree," says Dylan, looking warily at Auroch, spread-eagled on the ground and covered in his own blood. "It's the kind think to do, I guess."

His eyes flutter occasionally in his sleep, and I get the sense that he is waiting for one of us to step forward and try. But I don't say anything. They would think I was too weak just to end someone so obviously hurt's suffering, and they'd get rid of me… I know they don't want me with them, and it would be a very good excuse.

"D'you want to do it?" Diele asks Dylan. He shrugs.

"Be my guest. I've already got blood on my hands," he sighs. "Golden opportunity for you to join me in the murderers' club, no?"

Dylan sounds funny when he talks. Diele asked him, once, why he does but Rippel and Gull don't… didn't. It's because he's from another sector then them, and people talk differently in it. He showed her a language they speak, too. Her, not me. I am too disposable, I guess, to waste breath on.

"Okay," says Diele. She tenses her jaw, like she always does under stress, and holds her golf club like a sword.

She's extending it, about to deal a quick, killing blow to his head, when his arm shoots out and grabs hold of the club. He is too fast her to dodge a blow to the shin, and she squeaks a little bit, in pain.

I can't watch this. She crumples to her knees as her leg gives out beneath her, and Auroch, still prone, now has a height advantage, raising his arm for a killing blow. I am frozen, watching her… Diele… they would have killed me from the start without Diele. Dylan may just kill me now if she dies. Maybe she is the only thing keeping me alive…

Before I can act, though, Dylan has thrown himself over her, knocking her on her back, taking the bone-crushing hit to his lower ribcage and groaning. The club swings up again, and I can't stand it anymore.

I can't let him kill them. Either of them. He can't kill them! _He can't_!

My thoughts run together into a lightning-paced river of shrieking. My vision starts turning red around the edges. For years, I have watched them die, and done nothing! My brothers! My friends! I've been hiding from them!

I'm running faster than I've ever run, club raised, in an imperfect stance, and _I am going to kill him_!

One, two, three! With a vindictive sense of- almost enjoyment- I do it. I swing the club, I crush his skull, I do it again, and again! For my brothers! For my allies! For me!

I'm not thinking 'Die, Auroch, die!' or anything, I _just want him to stop hurting them_! And he won't! He won't stop! So I hit him again, and again, and again…

"Chalice!" Diele calls. "Chalice, he's dead!"

Oh, yes. There has been a cannon. And I killed him! I killed him, the monster! The one with the eleven! I've killed him! I feel… exhilarated? Terrified? Confused?

…strong?

"Are you… okay, Diele?" I ask, trying to bring myself out of the red haze. It feels wrong, suddenly. I've killed someone… Oh, God, I've killed someone…

"Broken leg," she answers. "It's Dylan I'm worried about."

I suddenly remember that I am supposed to be a healer. Someone who knows what they are doing. Someone who would never, ever kill…

_He deserved it_, says the vindictive part of my brain, the part that I gave in to, the part that I doubt will ever be silent again.

"What's wrong, Dylan?" I ask, keeping my voice measured. "Can you point to where it hurts?"

I lean over him, and, where he points, I roll up his shirt to take a look. Bad, definitely. At least one rib broken… whether all the way through or not, I don't know. Slowly, gently, I inch up his ribcage until I feel the break and he cries out.

"It's not a full break," I tell him. "That's good. If it breaks all the way through, it could puncture a lung, or something else vital."

The next one down is not as badly broken, but… badly enough.

"You're lucky to be muscular," I tell him. "The ribs are surrounded by muscle, and it's harder to break one on someone with more of it.

"Are you going to tape them up or something?" he sputters, looking as though it hurts him terribly to talk.

"No. Taping ribs constricts the ribcage, and it'll make it easier for you to get pneumonia. I can't help pneumonia at all, and it could cause you to break even more ribs, or more completely break the one's you've already hurt."

He nods reluctantly, which seems to hurt him as well.

"Will he be okay?" Diele asks, concerned. "Should he be able to move?"

"He can walk, but it won't be good for him. Ideally, he'd be resting for a week and on a mild training schedule for the next seven."

"I should have just killed Auroch when I had the chance. Dylan, I'm so sorry," sighs Diele, scooting next to him.

"We would have both been toast without Chalice," he says, grinning at me, wincing as he takes a breath. Not everything in his eyes is happy, though. There is a flicker of uncertainty as he looks at me. I can't and shouldn't blame him. I'm a little worried about myself, as well.

The little inner monologue has nothing to say about the matter, though, and neither do I.

"How soon will we be able to move?" I wonder aloud, feeling bad for asking.

"You and I are the only ones in any condition to fight," says Diele, giving Dylan a sympathetic look.

"Can you walk?" I ask her, and she stands experimentally, wincing when she puts weight on her leg.

"It's definitely broken. Could you wrap it up and set it? I don't know how. I've never broken a leg before."

I nod and set in with my first aid kit, pulling out a few supplies that really aren't what I need to set a leg, but are better than nothing, I suppose. It's a fracture, as I feel when I go over her leg. Very close to the ankle. Little to no splintering of the break. Auroch got a very good blow to her leg, very concentrated on one place.

It isn't easy to hurt her, but I have to, to set it so that it will heal correctly.

"There," I say, as I finish. "You'll have a job getting that dressing off, too. Just be careful. I'll try to make a crutch from a few of the fallen branches."

That's easier said than done, as I have no knife and no bonding agent. But eventually, I come up with a crude sort of crutch for Diele, and she thanks me.

"I don't think I'll be able to carry the cots anymore," Dylan says, tentatively feeling the rest of his ribcage to ensure its intactness.

"I'll get it, then," I say, trying to feel confident. After all, I left them to get hurt. I could have run in earlier… killed him… uggh.

"Don't think about it," Diele advises me. "You'll rip yourself to pieces if you think about it."

She knows what is going on in my head, somehow, though I doubt she's ever killed anyone herself. Maybe it's something people in training just _know_.

"Are you ready, Dylan?" Diele asks.

"Yeah, don't worry, I can walk," he says, standing up with a lot of effort. "Let's go. But… slowly."

We nod, and pick up our supplies and such. Diele balances her share with more difficulty than I do mine, though she is wounded, of course, and I am not. Dylan looks uncomfortable at letting me carry the cots, but, the more I think about it, the less of a load they seem.

Walking side by side, we continue down the road, away from Auroch's body. And I realize something.

I'm not scared of my allies any more.

**-x**

**There is a face in the sky that night.**

_**Auroch Vachel, District Ten**_

**Dead.**

_This update's question:_ You've just won the games. What is your reaction?


	37. Indirect

**Indirect**

**Demetra (D2)**

"This was seriously my best idea ever," I tell Lectic, grinning over my ice-cold ground meat sandwich. "We should stay here. A freezer, water, an actual bathroom…"

He cuts me off.

"Dem… etra, that bathroom was disgusting. I swear, there was a cockroach the size of my head."

"Nice save there, Lectic. You're not promoted to 'family' yet. I'd still be annoyed at myself for setting you on fire… though I suppose it would be awfully fun."

Lectic just laughs, which shows you how little he really knows me. Really. I'd do it.

"We could use this place like a fort, I guess… but there's no way to get the car inside, and I bet the other Careers could use it as a sort of battering ram," he sighs. "Then you'd have to toast them."

"Nah, I think I'd let you handle them… I mean, I have to get rid of you somehow. Can't get too attached, can I?"

"I still think it's a bad idea. They'd seriously just mow right through me, and, who knows? You might be incapacitated by laughter, or something."

I shrug.

"Fair enough. But what do we do about the water, here? There's way too much of it to just… leave it," I sigh, looking around at the great drums of water that sit on almost all of the shelves. Water, tires, gasoline, no food.

"We don't have anything against the other people in the arena… well, I don't. Why _not_ leave it?"

"Sign of weakness, idiot. They'll see that we've been here and left water, and they'll know we're potential targets."

"Why didn't _I _think of that? Let's just take all the water we can carry… though we can't very well do anything about the running water in the bathroom," he sighs.

"We could smash the sink," I suggest.

"Do you know how sinks work?"

"No," I shrug, unabashed. "Do they die if you smash them?"

"They tend to spray cold water in your face and flood your house."

Smirking, I take a deep drink of water from a huge jug.

"Yeah, I guess I'll pass. You win. Let's load up the car with water and cut holes in the rest. If the cockroaches are half as big as you say they are, they should keep our lovely competition out of the bathroom."

He smiles genuinely, and I half expect him to say something stupid, like 'you were paying attention!' that would necessitate his death. So Lectic is smarter than I thought. He just shakes his head and smiles.

"I'm not really looking forward to getting back in that car," he admits.

"Well, you'll have some time to clean it up," I say, standing up and beginning to walk outside. "We're miles ahead of the Careers, if they've even left the Cornucopia by now."

"What are we going to do?" he asks.

"About what?"

"Are we going to keep running from them? Or are we going to turn back at some point?"

This is something I have thought about myself, but I still have to think for a second.

"Lectic," I say, "all roads lead somewhere."

He understands. I can tell. Before he can get a word in edgewise, though, I walk through the automatic doors into the chilly late-morning air. It's gotten colder again. The seasons progress quickly, in this arena. I don't envy those who don't have a temperature controlled car. I don't pity them, either. In fact, I wish them quite the worst.

If they could go freeze to death or something, though, then all I would have to deal with would be Lectic.

And that would be a problem.

I don't hate him. Not nearly enough to kill him. I can't say I like him, either, which is helpful, at least. If he was a District Two, I would completely ignore him in classes and training. He's not the sort of person I would run with. I have two friends, and my brother. That encompasses my entire social circle, apart from various family.

Lectic seems the type to have a lot of friends. No one really close, like my brother and me, but more like an easy camaraderie with everyone.

Those tend to be the kind of people I avoid, as I worry about someone who can charm so many people so easily. Luckily for him, Lectic doesn't seem to know he does it.

And then there's whatever he was talking about, with my uncle killing his aunt. 'Indirectly', he says. Funny, because most of my uncle's kills were _very_ direct. It was just the one girl that he got attached to. She died accidentally. A dolphin, I think. He tried to pull her out of the water, but broke her neck.

I guess it's pretty obvious why Lectic doesn't dislike me for it, while I might well dislike him. For one, Lectic is a total pansy when it comes to disliking people. For the other, though, my uncle really was trying to help her. And maybe he thinks that I'd do something similar, and try to help him.

Maybe I would? Or maybe the past will repeat itself, and I'll 'indirectly' be responsible for his death, as well.

To be honest, as long as I'm not personally blowing a hole in his head, I'd probably just be annoyed at losing an ally. Probably. Bad Demetra, no more allies for you!

"There's some sort of paper in that computer at the front," Lectic informs me, walking up so quietly that I am almost startled.

"Can you eat it?" I ask, and he shrugs.

"It smells a bit like copper, and most of it looks extremely old. I wouldn't recommend it. There are also some bits of metal. I'm guessing nickel and copper."

"Let's take the copper. It's probably more valuable."

"Be my guest," he says, walking up to the car and beginning to remove some of the trash we accumulated. It's amazing how fast the inside of a car can get messed up.

"Good luck with that," I tell him, and walk inside to check out the metal bits.

Since we reached the gas station (it says so on the sign) Lectic has been working on a computer-looking thing that, apparently, looks even more primitive than the thing he has at home. Or so he says. It looks pretty advanced to _me_. Not that I'd tell him that, of course.

The little metal bits look a lot like coins, but they are smaller, lighter, and made out of metal. We have plastic coins, to keep them from being worth as much or more than the denomination they represent. I learned that in Peacekeeping.

These are much different, proportionally. And they're fancier, too. You can see a little man's head on one side of the copper one, and a weird building on the back.

"In God we trust," I read aloud. Hm. So it must have been a really religious nation that used them.

I pocket the copper ones, which are the second smallest. There are some really big silver ones, some moderately sized silver ones, and some ridge-y little silver ones that are even smaller than the copper coin-things.

On second thought, I take the moderately sized silver ones, too. They are smooth-edged, like the copper ones, and I think they have a girl instead of a guy.

"Are you ready to start loading up?" I ask Lectic, walking back out to the car. He has thrown away all of the red-white-golden-M bags, and is reorganizing what remains of their contents in a cooler with a bag of ice.

"Not quite yet. We'll need more food at some point, but at the moment, we've got enough to make it through another week and a half or so, assuming both of us survive until then."

"You're such a downer," I say, scooting over to help him get the cooler in the newly cleaned out trunk.

"How do you want to die?" he asks conversationally. I'm not all tha surprised. He has a tendency to ask random questions when he is bored.

"I want it to be awesome. All fiery and explosion-y and taking down at least two other people in the process."

"I don't mean it like that. I'm talking about, like, assuming you make it out of the arena. I want to die in my sleep, for instance."

"That's what I was talking about, too. Fire, explosion, mass carnage. Fun stuff like that."

"What do you want people to say at your funeral?" he asks, looking remotely exasperated at my answer. He's setting himself up for this one.

"Hmm… I'm thinking 'hey, look! She's moving! It's a miracle! Let's give her money!'"

He rolls his eyes, but laughs nonetheless.

"The money thing is taking it a bit far, Demetra."

"Noted," I say. "Now how about we start loading up the water and the rest of the food?"

"Let's do it," he says, and we begin to lug one of the bigger vessels of water to the car. It has a convenient spigot, and probably holds enough water to see us through a week. It takes the two of us to lift it into the back of the car.

"One more of those, and a few smaller ones," I suggest, and Lectic simply nods, rubbing his arms.

"You know, if we had something to use as an inclined plane, we could get the water into the car much more easily and with less exertion," he sighs, helping me with the second vessel.

"Yeah, but you've got nothing to use as a declining plain, and no upper body strength to speak of."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence, oh ally of mine. It's _inclined plane_."

"Same difference," I say offhandedly. "I can get the rest of the water by myself."

He shrugs, but looks immensely relieved. I decide to be nice for a change, and I don't laugh at him.

After I load up about four more gallons of water in the back seat, and Lectic finishes packing the last of the food in ice, we are left standing by the car.

"So, how are we going to do this?" he asks, looking up at me.

"Do you still have those tools?"

He raises his tool belt, which is half full of assorted gadgetry. I select two screwdrivers, handing him one.

"I'll teach you how to use it. Useful skill, no?"

"I already know how to use a screwdriver," he says, looking confused.

"Not my way."

I drag him back into the gas station by his free hand, and he doesn't protest much. I know perfectly well that he can't break my grip. His wrist is so skinny, I have a locked hold around it.

"Here," I say, pushing him up to one of the biggest water vessels, one that we couldn't have fit in the car, let alone lifted. "Stab it."

"With what?" he asks, looking incredulous.

I poke him with my screwdriver, then jam it hilt deep into the plastic vessel.

"With the screwdriver, smart one."

Reluctantly, he pokes the plastic with the screwdriver, wincing as, spectacularly, nothing happens.

"You're such a wimp," I inform him, removing my screwdriver. Water begins to gush out.

I stab it again, a little lower on the side, and Lectic looks awkward.

"Hold it like a knife," I explain, and he immediately switches to the grip one might have on a _butter knife_, perhaps at a tea party in the Capitol.

"A real knife," I sigh, holding my screwdriver in the appropriate manner.

He switches his grip, and tries again, though he lacks enough conviction to make a hole in the vessel of water.

"Put some weight behind it," I say, showing him again. He still hasn't made a dent.

"Okay, let's try something else," I tell him, with an exasperated sigh. "It's self-defense, now. I am going to tip this thing on top of you if you don't stab it."

"You'd make a lovely English teacher," he grumbles, trying again, and managing an actual dent.

"I know, right? You're getting there, this time… like punching someone. Have you ever punched someone?"

"No!" he exclaims, looking surprised.

"Well… imagine that this water thing just… do you have and brothers or sisters? No? Imagine it just killed your mom, then."

"How the heck is that going to help me?"

"Just stab it, Lectic. Stop thinking and stab the freaking water jug."

He gives me a mutinous look, closes his eyes, and jams his screwdriver, with a good amount of force, into the vessel. He is just as surprised as I am.

"See, you aren't totally incompetent!" I laugh. "Now go do another one."

I add one more hole, towards the bottom of the container, and run off to puncture some more. Destruction is fun!

By the time we finish, there is about an inch of water to slog through on the way out the door.

"Now, wasn't that fun?" I say, in a very self-satisfied manner.

"Surprisingly, yes. I suppose there are remote plus-sides to most arenas," he says, smiling broadly.

"And you learned something, didn't you? If you ever get attacked while I'm asleep, just poke that thing somewhere important and scream for me to get up. Now hold on, I'm going to fill up my flamethrower with fuel. Feel free to get in the car. I'll drive first."

He puts the screwdrivers back in his tool belt, and I walk over to the smaller of the two gasoline pumps. There's not much we can do about them. I carefully fill the bottle of fuel to the top, and screw the whole thing back together.

"You ready, Lectic?" I ask, hopping into the driver's seat and feeling strangely relaxed.

"Heck yeah," he says, with a bit of a laugh at the end. "Let's get going, Demetra."

**-x**

**Well, these two sort of took over my chapter. I love writing their interactions. :3**

**Check out my new poll. Who do you think will win?**

_This update's question_: What would it take to make you volunteer for the games?


	38. Vendetta

**Vendetta**

**Lucian (D2)**

Rippel doesn't like ants. She told me as much, luckily, as I would not have noticed that had she not. Judging by what I pay attention to, there are a lot of things that Rippel doesn't like. Not the least of which is the fact that she was deprived of the opportunity to exact revenge on Auroch.

Confusing.

Based on what I can grasp of my own feelings, I would imagine that she might be relieved to learn of his death, in the same manner that I was relieved to learn of Gull's. Though, of course, the situations are altogether different, as I would have been relieved to learn of any demise, while she was hoping for the killing itself.

Very confusing. Rippel is a confusing person. All people are, she even more than most.

"…of course, you aren't even listening to me," she sighs, and I snap back into the present.

"No," I explain. "Your thoughts are of no relevance to me."

"I could announce that I was planning to kill you, and you wouldn't bat an eye," she ponders.

I think about that for a few seconds.

"I believe that, if you stated that, and made obvious your intentions, I would most likely attempt to incapacitate you."

"Oh, like you 'incapacitated' Auroch?"

"I didn't incapacitate Auroch. I have had almost no interaction with him since I entered the arena."

"My point exactly. Except for the part where he shot you."

"Yes?"

"I am asking you whether you _quantify _attempted murder as interaction," she mimics, her voice strikingly similar to my own speech patterns.

"I do."

"What?"

"You asked me a question. I answered it."

Her shoelace is undone, I notice. She is saying something, but I don't feel any desire to look at her face… the shoelace is snarled up with some grass and a few sticker-burrs from the wooded area. It bothers me.

"-Lucian!"

"Yes?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"No. Your shoelace is undone."

"I _give up_!" she screams, startling me, though, in hindsight, the tone of her voice has been rising since she began to talk. "I _can't _do this! You won't listen to me, you won't talk, you can't even act like you're a normal person! You've got _a freaking bullet hole_ through your arm, but you don't even notice it! You don't worry about the games! _You're not even trying_! _You are going to get me killed_!"

"Are you feeling alright?" I ask her. "The pallor of your forehead indicates unhealthiness in such weather."

She throws a golf club at me. I dodge it easily, though it is well-thrown.

"Why are you throwing things at me?"

Her eyes, an interesting shade of greenish brown… like a kind of moss I have seen hanging in the stand of trees… are cold and empty. Even more so than usual. A vein on the side of her forehead is pulsing, just beneath the skin. She throws another club.

I dodge it as well. I have figured it out. She is throwing weapons because she intends to kill me. I run into the trees, knowing she will have a more difficult time of it as there are obstacles.

For a minute, likely more, I run flat-out. Until I reach I place that I remember. I check over the precipice, then drop to my hands and knees. There is a large ant crawling up a trunk, but self-preservation dictates that I should ignore it.

With effort, I continue to search. It has to be here somewhere.

I wonder vaguely why Rippel is reacting so strongly. She is not chasing me, but perhaps she will? I wish I could understand. My head hurts.

There.

A cold barrel. Buried beneath a thin layer of wet leaves, but barely damp, protected by dry ones. I have found the gun.

Still no sound. She is still at the Cornucopia. I check that the gun is loaded, and it is. Still in good condition. To think that I wished it over the edge. I stuff it into the pocket in my less-than-starched white shirt, beneath the red and gold apron.

On second thought, I take it out again. I can't let Rippel kill me. She is faster than I am. Every second will count.

I don't know what brought about her change, but I can only assume the worst.

There is a little brown mushroom, delicate and reedy, in my path. Without really meaning to, I crush it.

"Hey, Lucian!" Rippel calls, not that far away. "Look, I'm… sorry. This is really hard. You know what I mean? I'm really sorry. Please come back."

There's not much to glean from her statement. She wants me to come back… but she tries to kill me. My brain weighs the two, struggling to find a connection. There is none. I factor in the circumstances, though, and the odds increase in favor of the latter.

She wants to kill me. Why?

Nothing I have done is out of the ordinary. She herself has killed before, so it seems that she ought to recognize that I am capable of the same.

I hold the gun at my side, and leave the wooded area.

Rippel is in a crouch, and I overcorrect my aim, squeezing the trigger before I steady the shot.

The bullet hits one of her ribs, with an audible crack, instead of her head. I have not reckoned on that, and I stop, loathe to use another bullet.

Her eyes widen, probably from pain or surprise. And she looks at me, and she sees the gun in my hand.

"It was you," she whispers. "It was you all along."

I'm waiting for her to move, or die, or try to remove the bullet lodged in her chest. She doesn't do anything. Just stares at me. Waiting for something.

I realize that I have the gun raised, now aimed perfectly between her eyes. But I hope I won't have to. I don't have any extra ammunition.

Slowly, she stands up, and her breathing is shallow and experimental. She faces me, walking slowly forward. I wish I could read what is written in her eyes. Betrayal, I am assuming. I have betrayed her, haven't I?

"Why did you kill him?" she asks, her voice broken. "Why did you kill… them?"

"We're all going to die," I inform her, adjusting my angle, uncomfortable with her proximity, still waiting for her to die. But she is unarmed, and I have this excellent gun. I feel safe enough.

"There are things you just can't do," she says quietly, and I notice that she has gotten even closer. "Lucian, you can't just kill anyone you want to."

"Yes I can," I say, a little annoyed, and tired of whatever game she's playing. "Watch."

I shoot her through the eye. A beat passes, and a cannon goes off. Her body blocks my path, and I have to step over it. I stop, looking at her hands. One grips a broken-off section of a golf club, with a jagged end.

She was going to kill me. I was right. Of course.

Since I have nothing left to say to her, I continue on to the Cornucopia. Where the steamroller sits, abandoned.

Diele may not have understood it, but I would like to try my hand. There are a few dead ants on the seat, but I brush them off quickly. I can recall that the trouble was in a weak part that had fused with another in the girl with the flamethrower's attack. I do not remember her name.

The problem is easy to see. Though I am by no means a mechanic, machines have always made more sense to me than people. An important-looking disk has lost several of its edges, and appears droopy, though it, like everything at the moment, is cold to the touch.

I look back at Rippel's body, which is still on the ground, face-up. Instead of turning away, I walk over and relieve her of her weapon. I look at her intact eye, which is somehow more readable in death. Clear and glassy as a pool of water. Greenish brown on the bottom. Her pupils are heavily dilated, but I can still see the color.

She looks no different than in life, save for the wound on her chest and the sluggish trickle of blood down her cheek from the gaping hole where her eye once was. Her skin has a blue pallor to it, from the cold.

A freezing wind whistles past the Cornucopia, and I shiver, envying her for not feeling it. She is so cold there, on the ground. The ghostly grey of the light sends little shadows across her skin.

Above me, the tumultuous layer of fleecy clouds roils in the sky. Her eyes point up at it, seeing nothing.

I doubt I would mind death very much. So similar to life.

A little glimmer of silver distracts me, and I abandon her body once again. The tiny parachute lands on the far side of the Cornucopia. I am in no hurry to pick it up. The cloudy ceiling and my inability to see the sun give the arena the feeling of being separated from time.

It is bitterly cold. My fingers are not yet numb, and I easily open the small parcel.

The content is something I immediately recognize. It is the part that the steamroller is missing. I toss the packaging aside and return to the vehicle, painstakingly removing the old part, with the makeshift tool that could have been Rippel's murder weapon and my hands. Putting it back together is harder, but I manage. It is always easier to remove things than to add them.

When it is finished, I pull myself into a standing position and climb on to the steamroller. I turn the key that is already in the ignition. In a few seconds, the vehicle roars to life. Hopefully, the part I added will hold together. Though I know I have it in the right place, I still lack a basic knowledge of steamrollers and their parts.

I do, however, know how to drive. And I do. I drive away from Rippel's body, from all the supplies but for what I carry on my back and what Chalice and Diele loaded into the steamroller.

Her eye stares up, not following my departure. When the first flakes of downy snow begin to fall, they stay intact on contact with her cold body.

As she disappears behind me, I see a hovercraft finally swoop in to remove the body.

I don't look back after that. I don't look back again at all.

-x

**Diele (D1)**

"Was that a cannon?" Dylan asks. "Or another explosion?"

"It came from above us, not in front of us," I explain. "Definitely cannon."

His mouth tenses into a thin line, and he looks more serious than I've ever seen him.

"I hope Rippel and Lucian are okay," he finally says.

"Don't worry," says Chalice reassuringly. "There are so many others in the arena. And all they have to worry about is each other. Unless they've encountered some mutts."

"You're right," Dylan says, lost in thought. "Probably Demetra and her Three friend making another kill."

"We should get back to moving," I suggest, standing up from our little meal of half a ground-meat sandwich each, positioning my crutch and wincing as I accidentally put weight on my leg.

"I agree," says Chalice.

She has been much more vocal in the last few days. Dylan seems tremendously relieved that she is 'warming up to him'. I think it is something else. Chalice has been different since she killed Auroch. I suppose everyone changes after they have taken a life, but… not usually for the better. She is not scared anymore. I suppose that, in the long run, that is a good thing.

"Could you help me up?" Dylan asks, looking mortified at having to be assisted. Chalice offers her arm for support, and slowly pulls him to his feet.

He is nearly a foot taller than she is, and it is oddly ironic to see him so dependent on her aid.

"What will we do if we actually run into someone?" Chalice asks as we begin to walk. "Do we have some sort of idea?"

"Not really," I admit, shrugging. "But we really should start… you know, getting rid of the competition. If it's the two boys, or the little girl, I say we get it over with as fast as possible and move on."

"Fair enough," says Dylan, wincing with the impact of every step he takes. "I think we'll be relying pretty heavily on Chalice if we run into… someone else."

We all know he's talking about Demetra and her shadow from Three.

"I think that our objective, if we do encounter them, is to wait for some moment when Demetra is asleep. We have a better shot against the Three boy, judging by scores and weapons," I add.

"Did either of you see what he got?" Chalice asks.

"Well, they have the flamethrower, and for the sake of our safety, let's assume that Demetra is holding on to it at any given moment," I say after a second of thought. Dylan nods.

"The boy has a soldering gun, but that's pretty useless from any sort of distance. I'm guessing he has it for use as a tool."

"That reminds me," Chalice says suddenly. "The steamroller. I wonder if they would be able to fix it? Assuming they doubled back, say, while we were asleep? The Three boy is definitely the mechanic type. Maybe it isn't as broken as we think."

"Then we'll be prepared, I suppose. If you hear something coming from behind us, get into the woods. Both vehicles are too big to follow us there," says Dylan.

We fall silent, save for Dylan's little gasps whenever he takes a step. I really wish there was something I could do for him. But then again, I've got enough going on with my own injury. It's Chalice we're both relying on, and, all the same, it's Chalice I'm beginning to worry about. Chalice, who seems to have come out of her shell. Chalice, who killed the top contender as easily as child might eat a peppermint.

Only more violently.

Dylan doesn't seem to worry as much as I do. But, then again, he's got his own troubles.

"How many are left again?" Dylan asks, out of the blue.

"Nine," says Chalice, not even looking up. "Nine, including us."

_Eight to go_, I think. _Eight to go_.

But aloud, all I say is "We've got work ahead of us, then."

Lost in our own private thoughts, we continue down the road as it begins to snow. Thinking, worrying, knowing that the inevitable cannot be staved off for much longer.

**-x**

**Her picture is in the sky that night.**

_**Rippel Clark, District Four**_

**Dead.**

**Thanks to The Signature Thief for Lucian's steamroller part, and thanks to Caitlin for 'Why don't you just make it snow or something?'**

_This update's question_: Describe your hair, in the amount of detail that you would on an SaC form.


	39. Cold

**Cold**

**Lectic (D3)**

"I would seriously kill for a shower right now," Demetra remarks, staring out the windshield at the feathery layer of snow that has been building all night. I have to be especially careful, considering the driving conditions.

"Knowing you, you'd also 'seriously' kill for a pretzel," I retort, trying to concentrate on driving.

"I suppose you're right. You don't happen to have any pretzels, do you?" she asks.

"If you want food, I can pull over and get some from the cooler."

"I don't want_ food_, I want a _shower_," she sighs.

"Oh, make up your mind!"

She glowers at me, and I turn away to roll my eyes, and look back to the road. Since we left the gas station, the terrain has been consistent. Exactly the same, with no markers or signs or even minor differences in vegetation.

The snow gives it all an isolated feeling. Before, Demetra and I were alone in the car. Now, we are the only two people on earth.

The car trundles slowly forward, leaving tire treads in the snow.

"Are you sure this thing won't go faster?" Demetra asks after a while.

"No. But I don't know how to make it happen. Besides, this way we can scope out the landscape, and easily see if someone is coming."

"We can also be bored out of our freaking minds."

"That too."

Slowly, the road seems to slant upward. I notice it first, but don't comment on it.

"Hey, we're going uphill!" Demetra says excitedly.

"Don't get your hopes up. There's not much terrain that stays flat for long. This was guaranteed to happen at some point."

"Oh, come on, don't act like you're not excited. Something's changing!"

She bounces up and down in her seat, as I wonder if she has some sort of stress-induced ADD.

"Hey, don't roll that dow-!" I begin, as she presses the window button, sticking her head outside into the flurry of snow and taking a deep breath.

"Mmmm…" she breathes, grinning blissfully. Snowflakes, landing on her face and in her wild mane of hair, begin to melt on contact.

There is a sort of salty hint to the air, which mystifies me. It is not quite metallic, and it isn't 'nice', I would say. Demetra seems to notice it as well. The incline of the road continues to slant upwards, and I turn on the windshield wipers in an effort to see where we are going.

Demetra, her head out the window, is the first to spot the bridge.

"Stop the car!" she says suddenly.

I brake, as quickly as I dare to in such icy conditions. Before the car is completely stopped, however, Demetra has bounded out, her flamethrower in tow.

"Hey, come back!" I call after her, though she is lost in the flurry of snow.

"Lectic, you have _got_ to see this!" she calls, from somewhere in the snow. "We're on a bridge!"

My stomach immediately begins to churn. The salty, mineral-y scent increases as I exit the car. I don't care for bridges, though the only ones we have in Three are small, run-down little foot bridges that span man made rivers of factory discharge.

"I can't see much of anything," I reply, searching for the source of her voice.

With a flash of orange, a flame blossoms from the nozzle of the flamethrower, which I finally recognize. A good amount of snow is cleared, and, for a second, I can see her. She is pale with the cold, and leaning over some sort of railing. The snow resumes its normal patterns, but I am able to pick my way through and join her.

"Isn't it pretty?" she says excitedly, and I am once again struck by her capability to bounce between her personalities as a killer and as an easily excitable teenage girl.

"Yeah, I guess, so," I say slowly, looking up at the fleecy grey clouds and getting a snowflake in my eye for the trouble. "Ow, that's really cold."

"Look, the snow's starting to clear up," she says.

"Not by my experience," I mutter, my eye still prickling with cold.

"Don't be an idiot. Look."

She points over the railing, and my stomach flops into my throat. It's a drop of at least two hundred feet, if not more. This is no District Three bridge. In the thinning snow, I can see that the bridge arches much higher, with some system of suspension and railings that keeps it standing.

"Wow…" I murmur, gaze sweeping over the elegant cables, balanced so perfectly over the enormous bridge. The four lanes meet, merging into one instead of two separate roads.

"No, smart one, not the bridge. _Look_."

Somehow, despite the arena's appearance of having been torn out of the ground and deposited, in a strip, somewhere completely different, there is an ocean beneath us. The slate-grey waters are unfamiliar with the snow, bits of which still cling to the foam crests below us. My insides do somersaults at the height, but I can't look away.

"How are they doing this?" I ask, though I doubt she will have any more of an answer than I will.

"Look," she insists, pointing towards the horizon. "It's a waterfall. I bet they're pumping it in right after it falls over the edge."

"Then how do they get the waves? It looks… exactly like what I've seen in movies. It's so beautiful. All of it. Who designed this?"

"Some fat old Gamemaker, I bet," she says, rolling her eyes. "Besides, aren't you supposed to be the one with the answers?"

"You only get answers by asking questions."

"Forget I asked, okay? My feeble little brain cannot comprehend."

I don't point out to her that she seems more than smart. Demetra may not read nearly as much as I do, or spend time thinking about how things work, or fixate on little problems she would like to solve.

But that's not the only kind of smart.

She's kept herself, and by extension, me, alive. We are now two of the top competitors, especially since the Careers seem to be doing a tidy job of picking each other off. She enjoys life much more than I do. She is slightly unhinged, self-absorbed, and completely lacks a marketable intellectual skill. But she is happy.

Am I happy? Have I ever been happy?

I have never been happier… my life has never been better than the time I have spent in the arena.

That's the awful truth.

I would rather risk my life every second of every day in a place I've never been, than live my own life in District Three- safe, secure, and confined as an animal in a cage.

For that moment, I can almost understand why the Careers do it. They have a chance to escape. To see something new. To grab the fruit that has always been just a fence away.

All they have to do is risk their lives… and what are our lives, anyway? I have never had a purpose. Not even survival. And now that I am charged with keeping myself alive, now that I have a reason to wake up- so I will be able to do so again- I am excited about living. Knowing that my hours are in short supply, I enjoy them more.

When I think about it, it makes sense.

"Hey, _genius_, if you're done zoning out, it's time we got over this bridge. I've got a bad feeling about staying out in the open too long."

"Yeah, I'm coming," I shout back, as she revs the engine impatiently.

Before I'm even strapped into the car, she's got the car rolling again.

"What was that all about?" she asks, annoyed, as I buckle in and almost go back to daydreaming.

"Just thinking. You know, I'm actually starting to understand why you Careers do it."

"Do what?"

"Volunteer."

"And why is that, ally of mine?"

"Because it's a way to escape Panem, in a way."

She snorts.

"Not me."

"Then why?"

"I like destroying stuff."

"You know, if I didn't know you so well, I might think you were putting up a front."

"Good thing you know me, then. Because I might have to toast you if you thought that," she says, grinning rather wickedly.

"Yeah, good thing."

We go back to staring at the now snow-covered road.

"Lectic?" Demetra says.

"Yes?"

"I still want a shower."

-x

**Lissom (D10)**

Every day, I like Holland more, and Skiff less. And every day, I get a little hungrier. I'm not so thirsty any more, thanks to Holland's little fires and the abundant snow.

I can tell that it is worse for Holland than it is for me and Skiff. He's not the self absorbed merchant type, but he has never been this hungry, or dirty, or cold. Skiff and I have been hungry our entire lives, and though I am fastidiously neat, it's impossible to scrub away the amount of dirt that accumulates from living around animals in Ten.

Skiff has never seen snow before. Apparently, they don't have it in Eleven.

Just as well. I hate the stuff, that flies in every crack in the walls and under the door, freezing the joints and slowing the reflexes.

My throat is still a mess. Lucky I can't see it.

Auroch is dead. Holland watched my face carefully when his picture flashed across the sky, and I made an effort not to smile in a vindictive sort of way. I think it worked.

Take that, Auroch. Take that, District Ten. There are ten people alive in the arena, and I'm one of them.

There will be only nine if Skiff keeps making remarks about how pretty the snow is. Holland lent me the dirt-streaked blue coat from his starched suit thing, and further increased the amount that I owe him, but I am still cold. The coat is not made for warmth. More for show.

He doesn't seem to be as cold as I am, at any rate. And Skiff barely notices the snow at all except to comment on how lucky he is to see it.

"The snow seems to be letting up," Holland says quietly, and I almost jump. The two of us have been silently trudging for hours, while Skiff walks a few feet ahead of us.

"Thank goodness," I mutter in reply.

Even Skiff seems to have tired of the white stuff. He isn't laughing, at least, or 'frolicking.' There goes my excuse to kill him.

"So," Holland says conversationally, and I sigh inwardly. Don't they understand that I would rather be almost anywhere in the arena but here? That I am with them less out of choice than necessity and pity? "Do you have any siblings?'

"No," I say shortly. Yes, I am being rude. But hunger and pain and cold have shortened my tolerance to _absolutely zero_, and I am almost looking for an excuse to stab someone.

I reprimand myself for that last part.

_What's gotten into you, Lissom_?

"I just have a sister," he says, completely oblivious to the fact that I seem to have gone quite crazy. I seriously _want_ to kill people now? _Seriously_? Auroch was one thing, but Holland and Skiff… well, Holland, at any rate… has never done anything wrong to me. He's like a puppy. Just wants everyone to love him. I couldn't kill a puppy. Never. Not in cold blood.

"Well, not _just_. Her name is Charlotte. She reminds me of you."

"Starving and mildly homicidal?" I ask.

He laughs quietly.

"Okay, maybe it's just looks. Do you like reading?"

I stifle a sigh. Why will he not stop asking me questions?

"Don't have much time for it," I say sharply.

"Why is that? I thought you said you didn't have a job?"

"I don't," I snap.

"Okayyyy," he says, drawing out the syllable, but seeming to get my point.

My hands clench and unclench. I wonder why this is so annoying? I'm normally okay with talking to people I don't hate. Do I hate him, but not know it? I wouldn't put it past me. I mean, lately, I haven't been myself at all. I've been dependant on other people. I've hurt someone, perhaps fatally.

I never hurt people before the arena. I stole from them, but I never hurt them. Never hurt anyone.

Skiff, who, despite his occasional comments on the snow, has been mostly ignoring Holland and me since we joined up, turns around to face us.

"I think I see something up ahead," he says.

"Yeah," Holland agrees, looking relieved to have someone to talk to.

"It looks like a sign. Glowing, though," says Skiff, though he looks like he would rather not be facing me.

"Well, let's go but… be careful," Holland says.

_Never would have thought of that on my own_, I think to myself. And then _I am so hungry._

We walk closer, and discover that we have encountered a squat, cinderblock building with wide glass doors and huge windows. The sign glows above us, but, inside, there is an awful amount of wreckage. Huge vessels that I can only assume once held water are punctured, tipped over, or caved in.

Skiff walks towards the door, and it opens, releasing a small deluge of water.

"Such a waste," he growls. "And just to keep us from having it…"

Holland and I follow him in. It is much warmer in the 'gas station', but I still shiver in my plastic sandals at the cool, wet air. A few of the containers still have a little water in them, and we set about drinking what we can.

After the ice and snow outside, the place is a veritable oasis. Even as destroyed as it is.

I am the first to stop drinking and start looking around. In the computer-looking thing, I find some paper and metal bits.

"Do you think you could start a fire with this, Holland?" I ask, and he stands up, walking over.

"Yeah, easily. Dry tinder would be really helpful considering the weather."

I scoop out the paper and give it to him, pocketing a few of the round metal pieces. There are two kinds. One is big, about the size of the okay sign. The other is the size of the tip of my thumb. Both are silver, and both have ridges.

The bigger ones are more interesting, and they have more variety in terms of the pictures on the back. I take about twenty of them.

Holland begins to search the counter that the computer-thing is perched on, and I walk slowly around the perimeter of the gas station. Certainly, we can't stay here. The doors open whenever anyone approaches, so the entire alliance will be sitting ducks if the Careers find us.

I find a door to the right of a large freezer built into the wall.

The room inside is dark and smelly. I search for the light switch, and flinch as a single bulb comes to life. Almost every surface appears grimy. There is a sad-looking toilet, a sink, and a drain in the middle of the floor.

A cockroach the size of my hands put together scuttles out from behind the toilet.

I move slowly towards in, drawing my knife as it peers around quizzically. The little antennae bob up and down, and I have a feeling that it sees me.

Quick as I flash, I skewer it with my little knife.

The thing doesn't die. It wriggles and twitches on the tip of my blade. I would throw up if I had anything _to_ throw up.

However, I bash it against a wall instead. And again. Until it stops moving.

Then, I turn off the light and leave the bathroom.

"You might want to stay out of there," I remark to Holland, whose eyes widen at the huge roach. "Now how about that fire?"

"What are you planning to do with the bug?" he asks.

"Eat it. Don't worry, I'll share."

He shudders and sets about lighting a fire with some supplies he and Skiff apparently got from a sponsor early on.

I start by sawing off the thick wings, then the legs. The head, then the other end. I have eaten bugs before. What starving family hasn't? This one doesn't seem all that different.

"Are you planning on eating that?" Skiff asks casually.

"Yep."

The finished bug is about four inches wide and five inches long. It doesn't look very appetizing, but starving isn't, either.

Holland has a little fire going with a pile of the paper. He blanches as I skewer the bug once more, and begin to toast it.

"I think I'll sit this one out, if you don't mind," he says awkwardly.

"Suit yourself." I shrug. Now that I am warm and my thirst is satiated, my stomach is turning itself inside out for want of food. I must look a mess. I was nearing skeletal even before the arena. I can't imagine what a lovely sight I must be after three days without food.

Even the cockroach is looking mighty tasty. I can't imagine Skiff feels any different, though I am reluctant to split my meal with anyone, let alone him.

How long does one cook a bug? It's not really my area of expertise. When the exoskeleton begins to peel, I remove the cockroach from the fire. My hand feels hot from the extended proximity to the flames.

I cut the bug in half, right down the middle. Not perfectly, though. It may be petty of me (in fact, I know it is) but I give him the smaller piece. I have disliked Skiff since the second I allied with him, and my subconscious usually has good reasons for encouraging me to hate someone.

"Thanks," he mutters.

"Don't mention it."

I chop mine into cubes, and try to focus on other things as I chew them. I've heard before that cockroaches have some nasty bacteria. But I'm to the point where I don't care, and I would rather die of E. coli than starvation.

Maybe, if I'm lucky, Skiff got the part with the bacteria.

We finish, and glower at each other for a few seconds. It is acknowledged that we will kill each other the second it is prudent, if not before. That the only thing keeping us from going at each other right now. Because at least two of the people in this little group are going to die. Likely more. But, unlike Holland, who seems blissfully ignorant of the difficult choices to come, Skiff and I know full well that there is going to be a time when we are not allies any more.

And Skiff is going to be the one I aim for first.

"Is it over?" Holland asks tentatively walking back inside with one hand half over his eyes. "No offense, guys, but I think I'd rather starve than… that."

"When you say no offense, all it does is prepare me for the inevitable offensive comment," I remark.

"That wasn't offensive, Ten," Skiff says sharply. "It's not like he called you feral."

"Maybe it's not Holland who should be worried."

"Maybe you should have died when you were supposed to."

"Umm… Skiff…" Holland tries to interject.

"Shut up," says Skiff. "It's true. She's a liability. We've lost ground on anybody following us _because of her_. And you _know _she'll kill us the second we're asleep."

"Oh, I'm the liability, now? What have you done, besides run away? You can think you're better all you want. But I'm the one that can fight."

"District Ten," Holland pleads. "Please, everybody calm down."

"Not now, Holland!" Skiff and I snap.

"Quiet down, or we're going to die!" he yells.

We stop talking.

"I can see the Careers from here. They are nearly a mile away, but I can see them. Three of them. It will take them less than half an hour to get here. We need to get gone. I was going to try to break it to you nicely, but you seem to be too worked up over this to listen to even that!"

For a second, we are all silent, Skiff and I looking down like kids caught with their hands in the sugar bowl.

"Well? What are we waiting for?" Holland says, breaking the silence. "I'll try to mend one of the water jugs. If I can't we'll just have to fill the least damaged ones in the sink. Our best bet is to keep travelling in the woods. Let's go!"

Skiff and I, looking away from each other, get down to business. We find one jug with only a single hole that has been tipped on its side to accommodate the removal of water. Holland tries to stretch the plastic back together after softening it over the fire, with limited success.

I fill it in the bathroom, ignoring two large cockroaches that skitter beneath my feet.

"Let's go," Holland repeats, picking up the remains of the paper and metal bits, and stomping out the fire. "Out the back door."

Skiff carries the two-gallon container, and I take a one-gallon jug that we didn't have time to try to mend.

I had forgotten how cold it was, but there is no time to think about that. We dash into the forest, hoping against hope that the Careers will stop at the gas station. Forever would be nice.

Holland takes the lead, Skiff following him, me training behind. All animosity is forgotten as we race against time.

Most animosity.

I still plan to get rid of Skiff Child. Sooner rather than later.

**-x**

**Sorry that this was so late. Sassy, my dog, died yesterday.**

_This update's question_: There is a boss mutt that is being introduced a little after the final six. What do you think it will be?


	40. Pharmaceuticals

**Pharmaceuticals**

**Lucian (D2)**

I doubt I am being focused on. I have done nothing of interest, even to myself, since leaving the Cornucopia. Yes, I have slept a few hours, and ate a little food, and pushed on the gas pedal for hours on end- but something tells me that the Capitol is looking for more action than that.

Well, they aren't getting it. I am pleased to finally be alone in the arena. I like the cold, and it is easier to drive now that the snow has stopped, and is beginning to melt.

In the environment with much less friction than usual, and travelling on a gentle decline, I would estimate the steamroller's speed at nearly twenty miles per hour.

That is good, definitely.

But it will run out of fuel, and soon. A vehicle this fast in an arena is not meant to run for very long. When I can, I coast, when I can't, I don't mind. Walking will not be a terrible problem, when it comes to that. For now, though the whirring of gears and the sputtering of the engine is oddly comforting.

I am not sad that I am out of the public eye. It's easy to imagine that none of the viewers can see me at all, as invisible as I am. Not particularly attractive, not very big, but very, very lucky. In my understanding, I am something of a unique personality. Misunderstood would be the wrong word. Special might be better.

Wherever I am headed, there will be people, waiting to die.

Wherever we meet, I will be ready to kill them

The arena is growing tiresome, and I am quite ready to leave it.

-x-

**Diele (D1)**

He hasn't said it, but we, or at least, I, can see that Dylan is going to collapse soon. He has insisted on keeping up our somewhat insane pace, even in pain as he is.

I have broken bones before. That's an enormous risk at the Training Center, especially during unsupervised training- like on reaping day. From what I know of Dylan, however, he has a job outside of the Center, and normally can't afford to break bones, lest he miss work.

It doesn't sound like all that good of an idea, having multiple focuses. I have a hard enough time keeping on top of my schedule solely with the last year of school and the organized training that I have been a part of since I can remember.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask him for the hundredth time.

"Look, we both broke something, and you're even worse off than me. As long as you're okay to keep going, I am too," he mumbles.

"You're a really bad liar," I inform him. "Chalice, I need a rest."

She looks up from her feet, which is still a little strange to see.

"Let's look for a good place to stop, then."

I nod, and we go back to walking in silence, though Dylan is still having a lot of trouble. His breathing is hitched and comes with difficulty.

"I think I see something up there," I say, finally, when the silence is getting too much for me. "But we can take it slow, okay?"

Dylan looks a bit put out, but doesn't argue. He's not one to take injury well. To be fair, no Career is. He was hurt, defeated, by someone who he could not kill. Chalice had to save him.

What he doesn't seem to remember is that _he_ hurt _himself_. He could have stayed where he was, calculated a way to take Auroch out while he was distracted, smashing me to a pulp. But he has forgotten that part, and I can't blame him. For a while, I did, too.

But there remains the fact that I owe Dylan my life.

And I don't exactly know how I feel about that. Debts are dangerous. Deadly. Especially ones like this. He and Chalice are, in a way, my enemies, now that they have proved themselves stronger than me. And I should kill them. But I can't, because without them, I wouldn't be around to have such traitorous thoughts…

I look up, feeling immeasurably guilty. But they are not looking at me, not with apprehension or distrust. Chalice is staring at the road before her, eyes trained on some point in the distance as she thinks.

I do wonder what goes on in Chalice's mind.

She has proven herself unpredictable. The most dangerous kind of person. Maybe she is thinking about her brothers. Or about her parents, or her friends, as she must have _some_. About what is waiting for her at home.

She could be imagining how lovely it would be to rip Dylan's skin off. Or how best to bludgeon me to death.

Chalice worries me. But I need to stop thinking about that. Because she probably shouldn't. And I am no better, really. I wonder if she worries about me…

Unlikely.

From what I know about Chalice, she considers me valuable enough to save. I am the first person to stand up in her defense, though there are many who would have done so sooner, or better than me. I was around at the right time to make an impression.

And she trusts me…

I don't trust her, though. I think I should. But I don't. Not for a second.

Something about the way she understands people, maybe. About the way she neatly dissected Lucian's motives, her confidence in her knowing what Demetra is capable of.

Or maybe it's just that the bashed Auroch's skull in, and if I hadn't intervened, she wouldn't have stopped.

She tries to control herself. But she should understand that she is really a Career. And the most you can do, when killing is in your blood, is to try. She never learned how, and now she expects it to come as naturally as killing does.

It doesn't.

You don't train to kill. You train to know how, and you train so that you will know when to stop. They pick the kids who already know killing, already know violence, whether from their lives, or from some dark recess of their minds.

When you train, you take the violence and you make it a tool. Not like a sword. More like fire. It's easy to start a fire. Controlling it is harder. Much harder.

Chalice has only just sparked hers. Like a child with a box of matches, it would be so easy for her to be consumed, unaware of the danger of her new toy.

"Someone's been here."

She surprises me again, and I look up. We have reached a building with huge windows, and two glass doors that lack handles.

"How do we get in?" I ask, tilting my head, shaking out the thoughts and focusing on the problem.

She walks up to one of the windows, raises her golf club, and smashes it.

"Chalice!" I exclaim, surprised. She swings it again, removing the jagged edges around the base of the window. I limp over to the doors, shaking my head. Dylan follows me.

At our approach, the handle-less doors pop open with a _hiss_. Oh, Chalice. I decide not to say anything. The floor is covered in a sheen of water, and several sets of footprints.

"Yes, Chalice," I sigh. "Someone has definitely been here."

"Aren't we going to follow?" she asks, a bit startled.

I look at Dylan, who is already setting up the cots, his expression immensely relieved. He isn't listening in on the conversation.

"Look, Chalice, we just got here. And," I pause for a second, "_I_ really need a rest."

"No you don't!" she explodes. "You don't 'need a rest'! _He_ does!"

I slowly raise my arms.

"Okay, yes, you're right. But we're not leaving Dylan. And we can catch up later, okay?"

"This is why we have no sponsors!" she growls, pacing back and forth, club in hand.

"We have plenty of sponsors, Chalice," I say slowly.

"Oh yeah? Why hasn't Dylan gotten any pain pills? Why haven't you? It's because we've done nothing! We've gotten you hurt, we've gotten him hurt, we've killed one wounded, distracted tribute who probably would have died on his own!"

"We've stayed alive," I say quietly. "Isn't that enough?"

"Don't you get it?" She says harshly. "We are not Careers. We were never Careers. We're dragging him along, even though he is useless. Useless! Why do we still have him? There are only nine people in the arena, and he is going to die anyway!"

"Chalice!"I snap. "Don't think like that. Dylan is our friend and our ally."

He is acting like he can't hear us.

"We have to kill someone. That's what we have to do. And because of him, it can't be one of them!"

"Can you even hear yourself?" I yell. "Can you hear what you're saying? You know who you sound like? Naylor. Naylor Gomez. District Four. Do you remember him? Do you remember what he did?"

"Stop it!" she shrieks. "I'm tired of you! I'm tired of both of you! Stop saying things! If you won't kill him, than _I will_!"

Time freezes up for a second. Her eyes, green, round, sparkly- are wild. They have narrowed nearly into slits. Her knuckles are white, clenching the golf club in her hands. Her forehead knits together. Her teeth are bared. This isn't Chalice, grasping at straws, trying to find a way to survive, Chalice who only wanted a chance.

She is an animal, furious, feral.

She is going to kill him. She is going to break every bone in his body. She is not going to regret it for a second.

And then she is going to come for me. Maybe not right away. But she will. I'll say something wrong. If I already haven't. And she'll snap again.

Dylan doesn't know what to do. He has heard this argument spiral out of control. He doesn't have a clue how to stop it. He is completely and utterly helpless.

I can't let this happen. Somehow, this is my fault. For not seeing that Chalice could do this. For not killing her when it would have helped, when it would not have been the highest form of betrayal.

Biting my lip, I raise my own club. She is not looking at me anymore. I angle my swing. She will not even see me do it.

I strike her, once, at the base of the skull. Her club clatters to the floor, and she falls, too. Not quite dead, but stunned. Close. A few seconds pass, and I say nothing, feel nothing. Then a cannon. And Chalice is gone.

"I'll take her outside," I say stiffly.

"Not by yourself you won't," Dylan says, standing laboriously and walking over.

Together, we lift her body and carry it out into the road.

"Is it terrible that I don't feel bad?" I ask in a small voice. I don't. Not justified, but, well… like it was going to happen at some time or another.

"I'm in no place to blame you for anything," he says softly, putting an arm around my shoulders.

We walk back inside the station, watching as a hovercraft scoops her body up.

"How did you set her off like that?" asks Dylan, finally.

"The District Four boy… Naylor. You must remember him. Two years back."

"What about him?"

"Remember what he said?"

"Obviously not."

"He and the Two girl were on guard. There were only ten left in the arena. Not many Career kills. The mutts were especially bad that year."

"Look, you're just going to have to tell me. I really don't remember."

"He said 'Well, we have to kill _someone_'."

"A lot of people say that. Especially in the games."

"And then he stabbed her brother."

"Oh."

We are quiet again. Very quiet. Me, wondering if I was right to kill Chalice. Wondering whether there ever really _is_ a right thing.

There is a muffled thud outside, and I limp out of the station, eager for a distraction, golf club at the ready. There is a tiny silver package sitting pristinely on the concrete outside the double doors.

I pick it up and bring it back to the station, sitting beside Dylan on a cot as we open it.

Inside is a little orange bottle marked 'for pain'. Two little white pills rattle against the plastic walls.

We split the contents.

But the medicine does nothing for the ache that blossoms in my chest. My cousin is dead. Now my friend is dead. I killed someone from my own district. Someone who wasn't trying to hurt me.

"Forgive me, District One," I whisper, before the pain medicine sends me into a haze that might as well be sleep.

**-x**

**This took me longer to write than I would have thought, so apologies. A lot of time that I should have spent writing reviews and such, my dear friends. So sorry about that.**

**Interviews are next, and those will take me at least a week, if I want to do a good job. Bleh.**

_This update's question:_ If put in Diele's situation, what would you do?


	41. Families, Part One

**Families (Part One)**

By now, watching even the family interviews can't surprise me. I've been Head Gamemaker for years, simply a Gamemaker for much longer. My face and body may defy age, but my mind can't. I have seen everything. By the time one turns eighty, much difference is unthinkable.

Most people, even the other Gamemakers, would be surprised if they knew my true age. I keep my hair a dark brown that truly does look natural, keep my face young with the odd cosmetic procedure, keep my body young by good genetics and constant dieting, exercise, surgery. Someday, I know someone will realize that I am an old woman. But I doubt that I will mind. Though I hide from it now, behind my face that is barely a day over forty, I think that what I fear is the revelation. The change.

President Norris must know, but he keeps me on. I am a good Gamemaker. I honestly love the arena. Less the blood… but I love the creation, the product. Most of us do. Justinion, Falx, may be different, but every cast needs a few wild cards. Someone must take care of the task at hand… scaring them, sufficiently. Averting thousands of deaths with twenty-one especially horrible ones.

Interviews are painful. They always have been. Some families are stoic and reserved, some of the children cry; older, younger, twins, cousins… I've seen all of them. At their weakest moments. Completely in our power.

The room is always charged with a volatile energy, so thick that it could be cut with the dullest of knives.

I don't envy the interviewer who walks in, oblivious, to a room filled with eight families at their worst. She doesn't seem to mind. Bell, who is older than even me, may have some inkling, behind that face, long stretched tight with poison, collagen, anything a doctor can convince her will make her young again, of the tension- but she is long past letting on about it. She has been working as an anchorwoman all her considerably long life.

Bell reported through the Seventy-Fifth Games. She knew Snow, the old President. She wasn't smart enough to fear him. She knew Norris, an upstart teenager promoted mysteriously to a governing position in the Peacekeeper recruitment department shortly before the Sixty-Sixth Games, then somehow working his way into the government.

There is a mysterious air about the way he rose to power so easily. Norris is not an eloquent man, and it is easier to imagine him _winning_ the Games than orchestrating them. He would look better in place on a battlefield than in an office. He is scarred and sun-toughened, his beard grizzled and his gait commanding.

I never turn my back to him when I am in the same room. I doubt it would do me much good if he truly wanted to get rid of me. Nevertheless, I don't trust the man as far as I can throw him.

That thought elicits a laugh, and Cinian looks at me with concern. I smile thinly, and she goes back to watching Bell, standing outside of the interviewing room, looking chipper as always.

"-and that's how it's going to be, viewers! In this room, eight families wait for me. The friends and loved ones of Diele Hobel, Lucian Gray, Demetra Boise, Lectic Riggs, Dylan Ahava, Holland Love, Lissom Henley, and Skiff Child all sitting in the same room! There's sure to be drama as secrets are revealed, pasts are uncovered, and we finally meet the families that brought us this years' contestants! Don't go away, I'll be back with the interviews after these words for TGL's sponsors!"

Justinion snorts.

"How old is that woman? Her face is so frozen up, it's a wonder she can even talk!"

"Surely not much older than you are, Xenia?" Falx asks.

"I don't see how Ms. Voyeur's age relates to the interviews," I say stiffly. "Keep in mind, Cinian, that we are seeing the uncut version."

"But," Cinian asks, looking surprised, "Then why are there commercial breaks?"

"Because there _will_ be breaks, when the program airs," Epicure says gently. "But, see? She's walking into the room right now."

I redirect my attention to the screen. Bell _click-clicks_ in a tiny pair of heels towards a small gathering of chairs. A hand written sign hanging above them reads 'Diele Hobel'.

Among them, a willowy woman with dark brown hair has an arm around a slightly pudgy girl, with dark blonde hair and round green eyes, around the age of thirteen. A straight-backed, severe-faced man with close cropped blond hair sits next to the woman, looking distinctly displeased to be in his current position.

Her chair pushed away from them, a similarly severe woman, her hair coiffed and her eyes cold, sits next to a handsome man, probably approaching fifty.

One extremely out-of-place looking teenage girl scowls at the camera.

"Hello, friends and supporters of Diele Hobel!" Bell gushes, sitting down in a chair across from the tense group, apparently oblivious to their displeasure. "If I might ask, what are your relations to the tribute?"

"Mother and sister," the dark haired woman replies, gesturing at herself and the girl.

"Stepfather, aunt, uncle," the scowling blond man says curtly, as the other two adults nod.

Bell gives an encouraging look to the teenage girl, who glares at her sullenly before spitting out "Friend."

With a grin, Bell claps her hands in glee.

"A full, happy family here to support her! What a lucky girl!"

Epicure and I exchange looks. This family is anything but happy, to judge by the expressions of the adults and the defensive way Diele's mother shields her daughter from the rest of the group.

"Now, if you could tell your daughter anything, Miss Hobel, what would you say? Any advice?" Bell asks, blissfully ignorant.

"Please, call me Jules," Diele's mother says with forced politeness. "I would tell her that she has people at home who love her more than anything. To stay with the Four boy. To trust her judgment."

"And what do you do, Miss Hobel?" Bell asks, ignoring the woman's request for the use of her first name.

"I'm a historian and archivist at the economics university," Jules Hobel answers sharply, looking more than a little irked at Bell. "I specialize in capital punishment."

Bell looks at her vacantly, likely attempting to understand a few words from what Diele's mother last said, and figure out the proper response.

"Oh," she finally decides. "Who is this you've got with you?"

She nods to Diele's little sister.

"This is Dolabra," says Jules Hobel.

"Dolly," the girl protests weakly. "My name's Dolly."

"Well, Dolly," Bell says gently, "You must be very proud of your big sister."

"Yes, miss," Dolabra replies, eyes wide. "It's sometimes hard to watch. But I love her really a lot. And she would want me to, I think. Dad says she would."

The girl looks quickly to her father's face, then back at Bell.

"And what will you do, assuming your sister comes back?"

"She will!" Dolabra says confidently. "My sister is really strong. And she's really coming home. She promised! Mama and I are going to make her cinnamon toast, since she really, really likes it. And then we're going to have a new house, and she's still going to let me have the room next to her, so that I can come and see her when I'm scared."

Dolabra's eyes dart back to her father's face, then back to the camera. Even Bell can see she wants to say something. But the girl closes her mouth firmly.

"That's all I'm going to say," she says quietly.

Bell, thankfully, doesn't press the issue, turning instead to the man to Jules Hobel's right.

"And you are Diele's father?"

"Stepfather."

"And what is your occupation?"

"My sister and I own our father's jeweler's shop," he answers, his voice sharp.

"How would you describe your relationship with Diele?" Bell asks, still attempting to keep the interview going.

"Well, I have high hopes for her to return. I know we haven't always gotten along well, but I know she is a capable young lady who will do our family proud."

The man smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Back in the Gamemaker lounge, I snort. Epicure looks pained.

"That's quite a father Diele has," he remarks, before looking back to the screen.

"Stepfather," Aculeo corrects, looking tired.

Bell has moved on to the pair of blonde adults who look vaguely familiar.

"And what is your relation to Diele?" Bell asks cheerily.

"Aunt and uncle," the woman replies stiffly. "I am Agatha Dietrich, and this is my husband."

"Lumil Dietrich," her husband says, much more warmly than his wife, though his eyes are sad and slightly far away.

Something sparks Bell's interest, and she almost looks like the young woman she once was as she asks excitedly "Oh! Are you, by any chance, the parents of Lycra Dietrich?"

Agatha Dietrich purses her lips, looking aggravated.

"Yes," she replies tersely.

Bell recovers quickly.

"My condolences. What do you think of the actions of your niece, Diele, so far?"

"She's done better than my own daughter, that's for certain," the woman says simply, looking bored. "Lycra never could do anything right."

"Well," her husband says, looking even sadder, as if he has aged five years since the interview began, "Diele is family, by marriage or not. And we'll support her."

"That is a lovely sentiment!" Bell says cheerily. "How close are you with Diele?"

"We see her around the holidays," Agatha Dietrich answers, her jaw a rigid line. "She and Lycra didn't get along."

"Understandable," chirps Bell. "Thanks to both of you for appearing with us today!"

The woman does not even acknowledge her interviewer, but the man nods thanks, looking morose.

Bell turns her attention to the teenager shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"Are you a friend of Diele's?" she asks.

"Yeah. I guess. My name's Opal. We kinda hang out."

"I'm sure you miss her terribly," Bell says, her voice gentle.

"Guess so."

"Are the two of you in the same year at school?"

Opal crosses her arms, sticking out her lip in defiance.

"Uh-huh," she says sullenly.

A muscle in Bell's face twitches. She looks rather annoyed.

"Is there any message you would send her, if you could?" Bell finally asks, her lips in a flat line.

"Yeah. I'd tell her to go to hell. Am I allowed to say that on TV?" Opal mutters. "She lied to me. And she's never really been my friend. Not when I need her."

"Okay," Bell says quickly. "Thank you, Opal. And thank you to all of you. I'm sure Diele would thank you too."

A cameraman quietly informs them that they may leave at their leisure.

"What do you think?" Epicure asks me, turning away from the screen as the cameras are set up for the next interview.

"About what?" I reply.

"The interviews. Her family. Her friends. Friend."

"Well, on the negative side, I've got a lot more background on her. And she's going to be that much harder to kill. Also, I think I'd rather have that friend of her's… she's an interesting one, no?"

"The sullen one?" Epicure asks, surprised.

"Well, it's not us who have to live with her. And she'd be an interesting wild card for the pack."

"They've got Lucian for that," Cinian cuts in. "Look, his interview is starting."

Bell settles into a new chair, across from only two people. There is a short, plain-faced man with light brown hair and a nervous expression, and a smiling woman in a pink flower-print dress in a wheelchair. Her hair is long and dark brown braided down her back. Her eyes are pale grey, and slightly vacant.

"Hello, family of Lucian Gray! You know I have to ask," Bell chirps happily, "what are your relations to the tribute?"

"His parents," the man says stiffly. "I am Denser Gray and my lovely wife is Binnata Gray."

"Well, he is lucky to have you here to support him!" Bell says happily. "Now, Mister Gray, what can you tell me about your son?"

"Well," Denser Gray says, his voice gruff and emotionless. "Most people have likely figured out that Lucian isn't quite right. And it isn't his fault. The boy's been off since the day he was born. He seemed pretty much okay after Binny's accident, only had a little trouble, but he's never been normal, and he was really only worse afterwards."

"Lucy is on the television!" Binnata Gray adds proudly.

The man's face softens as he turns to his wife.

"Yes, Binny. And he's doing very well," he tells her quietly.

"Are you saying that your son has a disability?" Bell asks, a little surprised. "He certainly hasn't had any problems, so far…"

"We would appreciate your staying out of our lives," says Denser Gray. "Our family's problems are our own business, or they were, until you dragged our son into yours. You see what this is doing to my wife? She loves Lucian. He is our son, no matter what he does. And you've taken him from us. No matter what he does, it's you that forced him into it."

"Oh," Bell says awkwardly, scrambling to regain her footing. "So, you would say that Lucian… what?"

"He isn't one of your Careers, at least, not like the ones you've had. He may be from District Two, but that does not define him. He's just a boy. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he's done."

"He didn't mean to kill those people?"

Denser looks frustrated, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"He meant to. But it was these games that put the thought into his head. Don't you understand? He is not a bad person. He is not a killer. But you've given him the gun, and you might as well stamp the word on his face in black ink. You have made him your killer. How can you not understand that?"

"I don't, Mister Gray. He knows those weapons," Bell says, a little defensively. "You should take responsibility for his skills, at least."

"This is District Two, for God's sake!" Denser explodes. "How were we supposed to keep him away from weapons? How are we supposed to protect him, when we can't even protect ourselves?"

"Yes, on that subject!" Bell chirps brightly, glad to change topics. "What can you tell me about the accident that befell your wife and son?"

He only glares at her, looking immeasurably angry. Back in the viewing room, I almost expect him to throttle her then and there. I have seen that expression on many a tribute, usually followed by a cannon blast…

"It was a car accident," he says finally, taking a deep breath. "Five years ago. Binny took shrapnel to the base of her spine and her head, and nearly lost a leg. Lucian's skull was fractured. He recovered, but she is still in the process. And both of them are fine. We don't need the pity of people who have never met us."

"Yes!" Binnata chirps. "And now Lucy is on the television! Remember?"

Denser Gray looks deep into his wife's eyes, and smiles faintly.

"Yes, Binny. We_ really should be going_, if my wife and I are to make it home in time to have dinner. By your leave?"

His tone has an air of forced politeness.

"Of course, Mister Gray. I thank you for appearing with us for these interviews, and Panem thanks you, as well," Bell says, with a touch of finality.

The man stands up, and Binnata Gray smiles at Bell.

"Do you know Lucy?" she asks. "He's my son. I can't wait to see him again!"

A cameraman helps Lucian's mother wheel herself over a small lip at the door of the room, and the Grays disappear.

"They seem like a lovely couple," Cinian says sadly.

"Most people are," Epicure reminds her. "But it's the bad ones who get attention."

I don't have anything to add to the conversation. It is perfectly clear to me that Lucian's father loves his family and doesn't know what to make of his son, but defends him nonetheless. I have to sigh. If there were more people like that, I might not have become a Gamemaker in the first place. I might have a family.

"Demetra Boise's family's next," Justinion comments with a smirk. "Should be interesting."

Bell situates herself across from a wiry old woman with a grim expression, a very tall man with deep laugh lines and warm eyes, a slightly shorter woman with wild brown hair and fine features, a man closely resembling the first, though with a smoother face and a slight scowl, a skinny teenage boy with short blond hair, and two girls around Demetra's age obviously trying to restrain laughter at some inside joke.

"Hello, friends and family of Demetra Boise! Might I ask for your relationships to the tribute?"

"Her grandmother!" the old woman barks immediately. "Chandra Kailash, but Mrs. Kailash to the lot of you!"

"Her parents," the younger woman says, putting an arm around her husband. "That would be my mother who has so kindly introduced herself. Aquila Boise and Signifer Boise"

"Her uncle," the scowling man says, adjusting his features into a cool smile. "Severus Boise."

"Uh, I'm her brother," the blond teen answers distractedly, looking lost. "Celer. Celer Boise, I guess."

"We're her friends!" one of the girls says eagerly, her short brown hair bouncing. "I'm Dives. She's Metella."

"Shut up, Dives!" Metella growls, annoyed. "I know my own name!"

"Well, Demetra certainly has a lot of support coming from home!" Bell emotes, looking extremely pleased at the variety of personalities before her.

"Damn right!" the grandmother snaps. "Granddaughter of mine makes it to the final eight, I come to have my say!"

"Chandra!" Bell says gleefully. "Why, I seem to remember interviewing you… was it really that long ago? Forty-four years! Your son, Soren…"

Chandra Kailash interjects before Bell has a chance to finish.

"We don't talk about him," she says sharply. "But Demetra, and Aquila, too, have done well by me, and I intend to see that my granddaughter gets a damn good shot at this!"

"Strong words, Missus Kailash!" Bell says. "Does your daughter feel the same way?"

Bell turns to Aquila Boise, Demetra's mother.

"Mom's covered pretty much everything," the young woman says, laughing.

"And what about you? Why, you're barely older than Demetra!" Bell cries.

"I married early," Demetra's mother explains. "Had to get out of the house. When you get two strong personalities like my mother's and my own in the same home, running away at fifteen seems like a better idea than it might to most."

"I can understand," Bell says sympathetically, though I doubt sincerely that she does. "How old were you when you had Demetra?"

"Sixteen," says Aquila Boise, though there is not a trace of regret in her voice. "I had a steady job, a husband, a house, and an education. Why not?"

"Fair enough," Bell laughs. "Do you feel that there are a lot of advantages to having so little age difference?"

Demetra's mother laughs wryly.

"If you think it helps me relate to her, you're wrong. We're worlds apart. Totally different people. Like any kid, she hates it when I try to understand her. I respect that, but it doesn't stop me from trying."

"And what do you do?" Bell asks.

"I work in education. Physical education, and a bit of history. I teach about weapons."

"That would explain your daughter's understanding of that flamethrower," says Bell.

"And to think I was under the impression she didn't pay attention to a thing I said…" Aquila Boise laughs again. "It's not the easiest career path. But I love what I do."

"What about you, Mister Boise?" Bell asks Demetra's father. "Are you an educator as well?"

"Oh, no," he replies. "I couldn't do what my wife does. I'm a health and safety supervisor in a marble quarry. I don't enjoy it the way she loves her work, but it pays for the house."

Bell laughs.

"How would you say you and Demetra get along?"

"Well, I often end up as the mediator during mother-daughter arguments. We mostly stay out of each others' way… mainly to avoid tension."

"A noble goal," Bell says, grinning. "If you could talk to your daughter, right now, what would you tell her?"

"That no matter what happens in that arena, she's a good kid. And she's got her mother and I waiting for her at home, though that's not much of an incentive to make it back…" He trails off with a sad sigh. "We love her, no matter what choices she has made, or will make in the future."

"That's a lovely thing to say," Bell tells him. "Now, what about your brother, Severus? How involved has he been in Demetra's life?"

"Well, I think he's better equipped to answer that than me," Signifer Boise says thinly.

"That's true," his brother adds smoothly. "My job requires me to travel, and I don't know her as well as I would like to personally."

"What do you think of her strategy so far?" Bell asks.

"She is very much alive, and I commend her for that. She is very much human, though, and her inability to control her own emotions is inexcusable. If anything is going to lead to her death, it will be that."

"Would that be the advice you would give her?" Bell asks, a tad confused. "Control your emotions?"

"Unlikely. All that would do would be to spur her into something even stupider. She delights in challenging assumptions, my niece. No, I would tell her to get rid of the Three boy before it actually leads to something."

"But… but she's so perfect with Lectic!" Bell says immediately. "Aren't they adorable?"

Severus Boise laughs harshly.

"Adorable, yes. But being cute won't keep her alive. And that's really all I want. My niece to come home safely."

"That's kind of you," Bell replies mildly. "Now, what about you, Celer? What do you think about your sister's choice in allies?"

"To be honest, she's better off than she would have been in the Careers. They're down to, what, two? Three? And Lectic is smart. I know he isn't going to kill her. He's helped to keep her alive, and no one can deny that. He's exactly who I would have gone to in her situation."

"Well, like brother like sister, is it, then? Do you consider yourself to be like Demetra?"

Celer shakes his head ruefully, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Ah, no, not really. We're pretty different. I wouldn't have volunteered in the first place. She's pretty spontaneous like that. And I'm not really the kill people sort, if you know what I mean," he says, shrugging. "I mean, I'm more like Lectic than like my sister."

"What is your opinion on her friendship with Lectic?"

Demetra's brother looks even more uncomfortable.

'Well, uh, he seems nice and all, and…" Dives and Metella, who have been sitting in relative quiet through the interviews of Demetra's family, explode.

"He is completely adorable!" Dives declares. "Like, seriously, if I'd known he was in District Three, I would have found a way to hop the fence!"

Celer puts his head in his hands, but appears to be laughing uncontrollably.

"She has no freaking clue how lucky she is," Metella adds. "I mean, she's stuck in a luxury car with a sweet, adorable boy and some awesome heavy weaponry, and she's crying? Oh, my gosh. Sign _me _up for the Games, okay?"

"_Please_ keep it down about the guy," Celer groans. "This is my _sister _you're talking about."

"Oh, be quiet, Celer," Dives says, nudging him with her elbow. "Anyway, Demetra was all cryptic about volunteering, but I bet she's glad she did! And I wouldn't be surprised if she won. I mean, her mom_ is_ the instructor, so it figures she's better with special weapons than the lot of us."

Bell looks on, bemused. I wonder if she can remember being young and trivial? Or rather, if she can remember being young?

"Demetra is lucky to have friends like you," Bell finally cuts in, smiling slightly. "Thank you to everyone for appearing to talk about your tribute."

The family members and friends begin to disperse.

"You're right," Cinian says to Justinion. "That _was_ interesting."

"And next, we've got Lectic's family. Bet they loved that conversation on how 'cute' their son was," Aculeo snorts.

"Well,_ I_ certainly did," I say.

"Do you think that Severus Boise was the friend President Norris was talking about?" Cinian whispers to Epicure.

"Most likely," he says, shrugging. Again, I decide not to throw in my opinion, and look back to the television.

Bell announces a commercial break, pauses, and immediately joins a group of people under the nameplate 'Lectic Riggs'. They are all much smaller than the people representing the previous districts. The tallest among them is a thin man around five foot eight, his ashen skin dull and his eyes tired. Besides him sits a tiny, pretty woman with the same dark complexion and dark hair braided back in neat rows. There are two other women, who resemble the first enough to be triplets. One of them is holding a scrawny black kitten.

A teenage girl, who doesn't seem to know them, stares at some point in the distance and whispers to herself.

District Three is definitely an odd one.

"Hello, supporters of Lectic Riggs! Let's start this off with introductions, if you will?"

"I'm Colleen Riggs, his mother," the small woman with braided hair says quietly. "This is my husband, Levi Riggs, and these are my sisters, Indy Smithfeld and Jen Sizemore."

The people nod politely as they are introduced, and the kitten lets out a loud cry, somewhere between a whine and mewl.

"The cat is Lectic's. Sparky. We couldn't leave him at home. He scratches things," Colleen Riggs adds in her quiet, measured voice.

"I'm Screne," the teenage girl says, her eyes coming back into focus. "Lectic is my friend."

"Now, Missus Riggs," Bell begins. "If I remember correctly, your family has had some previous involvement with the games?"

"Yes," Lectic's mother replies. "My older sister, Lecia."

She doesn't elaborate, fitting considering the quiet economy of words the group seems to subscribe to .

"How do you project your son's chances?" asks Bell.

"Oh, not very good. But we support him, of course. Merely attempt to keep the odds in consideration while doing so."

"Good idea," Bell says awkwardly. "What do you think of his friendship with the District Two girl, Demetra Boise?"

"Lectic has always been a smart boy. We trust his decisions," replies Colleen Riggs.

Another cryptic answer. I doubt that Lectic's mother is doing so on purpose, but she is thoroughly confusing Bell, who must have gotten used to the straightforward talkativeness of Demetra's family.

"And what about you, Mister Riggs?" Bell asks, turning to Lectic's father. "Is the alliance in character for your son?"

"He tends to act while still in the process of thinking," the man replies. "It's a flaw."

"Uh," Bell says, "Yes, I suppose it is."

"I think she is good for him. Keeps him from over thinking details."

"That's… good," Bell replies. "Erm, how would you say your son fit into your family?"

"My wife and I work long hours. He does well in school, doesn't bring too many people home, and cleans up after his cat."

"Also good…" Bell trails off, searching for something to ask. "And… how well does he know his aunts? Is there any other extended family?"

"I married Lucas Sizemore, but he's been dead five years, now," Jen Sizemore comments. "He and Lectic got on well enough."

"Jen lives across the district, but I stop by occasionally to make sure all is well," Indy Smithfeld adds. "His grandparents have been dead since we were just children."

"Oh. Well, you've all turned out well!" Bell chirps, though she certainly does seem a little bit unsettled by the cerebral presence that follows the small group of people. "And, Screne, are you related to Lectic at all? Not in the slightest? Because you remind of him, quite a bit."

My guess is that Bell is grasping at straws to get the interview to its requisite length. Sparky the cat makes the terrible, screaming mewl again. Bell laughs nervously.

"Is he hungry?" she asks tentatively.

"No, he sounds like that all the time," Colleen Riggs replies. "He's not a mean cat. Don't worry about him."

The kitten give Bell a wary look with his huge amber eyes. She extends a hand slowly, muttering 'nice kitty… good kitty'. Sparky flicks his tail distastefully and looks annoyed, curling into a ball on Indy Smithfeld's lap and yawning.

"Okay," Bell says, dusting herself off and turning back to Screne. "Where do you know Lectic from?"

"School," Screne answers shortly, not looking bothered, but distracted. "Most of his friends could not afford the trip, but my workplace offered me an advance so that I could come."

"He must be a very good friend," Bell observes. "Didn't he volunteer for you?"

"Yes, he did. I owe him for that, especially as I doubt that I would have possessed the courage to do the same."

"Well…" Bell trails off. "Good. Very good. What can you tell me about Lectic?"

"Sparky likes to sit on his shoulder," Screne says slowly. "He has a lot of friends. He is good at talking to people. Clever. Not selfless, but he prefers it when those around him are happy."

"Interesting interpretation," says Bell, though she looks confused.

"Yes. He is a good person," Screne says, smiling. "I hope to see him again. I hope he will come home."

"That is certainly kind of you to say," Bell chirps, looking happy to have a conclusive moment. "Thank you very much for speaking to me today. I'm sure Lectic would thank you as well."

A few of the congregated people nod assent, and Sparky the cat hisses as he is carried away by Indy Smithfeld. I can see the relief on Bell's face.

"To be honest," Aculeo says, "I'm really not surprised about them. Nothing stood out all that much."

I nod agreement.

"I can see how Lectic came out the way he is," I add. "Quiet group of people, don't you think?"

Epicure shrugs.

"I think that's just District Three for you, Xenia."

"Who's next?" I ask. "We've got a District Four, right?"

"Yes. Dylan Ahava," Cinian says. "He was injured a few days ago. I hope Bell will at least try to be tactful…" She trails off, and sighs.

Bell is seated across from only three people. There is a tall, muscular man with fair hair and blue-green eyes, and a petite woman who is clearly his wife. Both of them have a sun-weathered look, their skin tanned dark and their hair bleached light. Next to them sits a dark skinned young woman with long, straight, black hair, and almond eyes. She is wiry and catlike in figure, and she seems unhappy, her forehead contorted and her mouth pursed.

"Hello, supporters of Dylan Ahava!" Bell cries cheerfully, no doubt looking forward to a short, concise interview. "Let's begin with introductions. What are your names, and your relations to the tribute?"

The tall man clears his throat. "My name is Trafford Ahava, and this is my wife, Ursula Ahava."

"We're Dylan's parents," explains the woman.

"I'm Scilla Altair," the young woman says sharply. Her voice has something of a pinched feel to it, as if she would be more comfortable speaking a different dialect. "I am Dylan's employer."

"Well, Mister Ahava," Bell says, sounding cheerful. "What can you tell me about your son?"

"We've never gotten along all that well," Trafford Ahava replies gruffly. "But I'm sure that my son can do this. He's a good kid. Tries his best. Works hard."

"It must be difficult to see him hurt," Bell says, her face a mask of sympathy.

"That it is," sighs Ursula Ahava. "But he has a friend in there, and, no matter what happens, we will be eternally grateful to Diele Hobel."

Bell smiles at the two of them.

"How do you feel about your son's strategy?"

Dylan's father laughs wryly. "Oh, he's making it up as he goes along. Dylan has always been good at improvising."

"That's true," says Dylan's mother. "I'm sure he'll be more than able to see himself to the final five. I have very high hopes that we will see our son alive again. I wish we could talk to him, that's all. He's still just a boy."

"A very tall boy," Trafford corrects. "With a mind of his own."

"That too," Ursula agrees, laughing. She turns serious, facing back towards the camera. "We will see our son again. I know that much."

"What are your feelings on that friend of his you mentioned earlier, Diele?" Bell asks.

"Oh, she's a good girl," Ursula replies, smiling slightly. "As I've already said, we owe her family a great deal. Dylan deserves such good friends, and I can only hope he understands how much she's sacrificed for him."

Trafford Ahava merely nods, having nothing to add to his wife's comments.

"Dylan is lucky to have two such parents as yourselves," Bell says cheerily.

"Maybe once he makes it out of there, he'll realize it," Trafford Ahava says with a grimace.

Bell merely smiles at him before turning her attention to the young woman seated next to Ursula Ahava.

"And your name is Scilla Altair?" she asks.

"Yes," Scilla answers curtly.

"How do you get on with Dylan?"

"Oh, well enough," the young woman says off-handedly. "He slacks, I yell, he comes in late, I throw things… not much different than any employee and employer relationship."

"Were you surprised when he volunteered?" Bell queries.

"No, but we had a bit of a scrape about it before the reaping. I think he made a stupid choice."

"And what can you tell us about Dylan Ahava's character?"

"He's… a good guy. He means well. He doesn't think much about himself. A lot of guys, growing up on the coast, end up thinking they own the place, since they don't see anyone but themselves as important. He's the opposite, if you know what I mean. Doesn't consider the effects of his own actions on himself."

"I see what you mean," Bell says gently. "What do you think about his competitors? His ally?"

"Well, the two in the car are hilarious. And the quiet one is damn terrifying. The three kids are cute, I guess, but anyone can see that they're not going to win. I'm sorry, but it's the truth."

"Specifically, how do you feel about Diele Hobel?"

I can see Scilla Altair's brain whirring behind her eyes reorganizing thoughts, forcing itself to be nonchalant, though not convincing anyone.

"She doesn't deserve him for a second," the young woman says flatly, her tone free of any inflection. "He should not have gotten himself hurt for her."

"Scilla Altair," Bell says soberly, "Do you think Dylan is going to win?"

She struggles with herself for another moment, before answering.

"Yes," she says simply. "I think that he is going to win."

Bell breaks into a smile. "Thanks to the three of you for being here. I'm sure, if given the opportunity, Dylan would thank you, too."

Scilla nods curtly, and immediately stands up to leave the room. Trafford and Ursula take their time, Ursula going so far as to thank Bell and the cameraman.

"So how about them?" Epicure asks me. "You expecting that?"

"Sort of," I admit. "You can tell that Dylan's been raised well. Not the way you or I would raise a kid, but… well."

"I was thinking more about the girl," says Epicure. "Silly? Was that her name?"

"Scilla," I clarify, after a second of thought. "She seemed… nice enough."

"Would have made a great tribute," Aculeo comments. "Did you see her when Bell mentioned the District One girl? She probably would have gotten on well with Demetra."

"True," I muse. "Very true. I wonder how hard it would be to get Dylan thinking about her?"

Cinian looks shocked.

"Oh, Xenia, I thought you could tell?"

"Tell what?" I ask, confused.

"He's utterly clueless! Believe me, I know. Aside from history, relations are about the only thing I understand."

I sigh.

"Well, Cinian, it's been a while since I was young."

"I'm not all that surprised," Justinion says, looking to Cinian. "The kid isn't exactly bad looking. No Finnick Odair, of course. But relatively pretty, loyal, and dumb as a post?"

Cinian blushes. "Dylan isn't stupid!"

"Oh, really? Compare him with, say, Lectic," Falx laughs. "Or Lucian, even."

"Well, what about the trio?" Cinian says, a tad sulkily. "They're next, anyhow."

"Favorites in the Districts," Aculeo observes, checking some figures. "They're the only ones who haven't allied with Careers so far."

"On that subject," Epicure asks tentatively. "How long do we leave them alone? I don't believe that Dylan and Diele will be running after them for a while."

"Well, we could send in a crew to set up a few of the mechanical muttations..?" Justinion suggests.

"I think a _real_ mutt might be more visually effective," Falx argues.

"Oh, be quiet!" Cinian hisses. "We're going to miss Holland's family!"

**-x**

**This is the end of Part One. Part Two is already uploaded.**

_This update's question_: Do you suspect anything?


	42. Families, Part Two

**Families, Part Two**

Bell has already seated herself across from a pretty blonde woman and a tall, dark-haired man. A painfully skinny teenage girl sits beside them, looking tired and sad. There are four younger teenagers, two girls and two boys, sitting to the side.

"…thank you for introducing yourselves!" Bell is saying. "Now, Missus Love, what can you tell me about Holland?"

"Oh, our son is a sweet boy. There isn't a mean bone in his body, if you know what I mean. He's very smart, a good writer. I taught him in sixth year."

"So you're a teacher?"

"Yes," the woman says, smiling. "Both my husband and myself work in education. We value it a lot in our household."

"I can tell!" Bell chirps. "What do you think of your son's alliance?"

Holland's mother sighs, still smiling.

"Wherever Holland goes, he manages to find himself some friends. That's just who he is. I worry about both of them, though. I think he underestimates what the girl is capable of, and he hasn't yet considered the consequences of the alliance. As for the boy, well, he isn't the kind of person Holland is used to."

"What do you mean by that?" Bell probes.

"Holland likes it when people listen to him. Not necessarily as a leader, but… he's very opinionated. And he hates it when his feelings are not considered."

"I think I understand," Bell says knowingly, though I doubt she does. "What was going through your head when his name was drawn?"

"Oh, abject terror. Like any parent, I suppose. I want my son back, and I don't know if I'll ever see him again. I can't be there to protect him, and… well, that's the worst feeling in the world."

Her eyes say that the sentiment is genuine, but I wonder about how calm she is. Maybe it's a teacher thing.

"You seem very put together," Bell says, smiling.

"I've lost students before. This is different. But there aren't many tears left."

"I'm sorry, Missus Love, but let's not discount Holland yet. How about you, Mister Love? How have you been coping, with him being gone?"

He laughs harshly.

"I had trouble dealing with it when Holland was away sleeping over at a friend's house. This is awful. It's so hard to watch him, in there… so close to all that violence, the people who would kill him happily… I can only pray that he'll come home. That's all I can do."

"How would you say he is dealing with the situation?"

"I couldn't possibly hope for any better. He's got people with him, and Holland has always been a people person. I think he's happy enough, considering what's going on."

"This is a difficult question, Mister Love," Bell says sympathetically, "But, do you honestly believe that your son is going to win?"

"Yes," he replies immediately. "With every fiber of my being. This would be a thousand times more difficult if I couldn't convince myself he had a chance."

"I wish him only the best," Bell says earnestly. "Now, Charlotte, is it? What do you think of what your brother has done so far?"

"I almost wish I was in there with him," the skinny teenage girl says, pursing her lips crossly. "Almost. I wish I had him back for just five minutes, so I could knock some sense into that brain of his!"

"What would you tell him?"

"Ditch the allies and run. One of them is going to knock the other off, and then come for Holland. You'll see. Having two allies simply isn't practical at this point, whether or not one of them reminds him of me or whatever!"

"Strong words!" Bell gushes. "And how old are you, Miss Love?"

"I'm fifteen. Holland's fourteen, but he only just turned."

"Do you miss your brother?" asks Bell.

"Of course. Actually, it's kind of surprising. I mean, Holland thinks he's my older brother, always 'looking out for me' and whatnot. But he means well. And I'm sure there are people in there who are going to take advantage of that… and now I feel guilty for taking having a little brother for granted."

"Do you think he's coming home?" Bell queries.

Charlotte sighs, looking even sadder.

"I haven't really slept since he left," she admits. "Every night, I just think. I can't sleep, knowing that… knowing… I really don't have a brother any more. I don't think I'll ever see Holland alive again. And I don't want to spend any of the last moments I have of him being… alive… sleeping. It doesn't seem fair. I just want my brother back. But I'll never hit him with a book again."

"Thank you, Charlotte. I'm very sorry," Bell says, her eyes wide with sympathy. "As I've said before, don't give up on Holland yet."

Charlotte Love nods morosely, pulling her knees to her chest and putting her head between her hands. I suspect that she might be crying.

"Now, I apologize," Bell chirps, likely already forgetting about Charlotte, "But I simply cannot remember your names!"

She is looking at the group of four teenagers around Holland's age.

"No problem," one of the girls says. "I'm Adele, this is Kersey, and the boys are Adam and Jaspe."

"Are you all close friends of Holland's?" Bell asks, as tad confused.

"_Everyone_ is a close friend of Holland's," Kersey says, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. "But our parents could afford the trip to the Capitol."

"Yeah. _Everybody_ likes Holland," Adam explains. "He's just a really nice guy, you know? Always reasonable. You can trust him. To be honest, I don't know how he's made it so far, being so… nice. The nice ones usually die first."

"Well, what can you tell me about your friend?" Bell queries.

"He's been in class with me the longest," Jaspe declares. "I can't remember ever not being friends with him. In pre-grade, I remember thinking he was probably the smartest person ever, since he knew a whole lot of long words."

"Holland's really smart," Adele agrees. "Like, in a book-ish sort of way. He reads a lot. I guess we shouldn't be surprised, his parents being teachers and all."

"I think he's funny," says Kersey. "You know, good at making jokes and stuff? Once he told me he wanted to be a comedian in the Capitol. That's a person who tells jokes _for money_!"

"And he's got a cool last name, too," Adam adds. "I think he'd be a good teacher, you know?"

"I liked him… _like_-liked him all through seventh year," Adele says, a little sheepishly. "It still doesn't seem real, him being… gone. And he isn't even gone yet."

She shrugs, followed by the rest of the small group.

"I understand," Bell says quietly. "Friends are impossible to replace. But we can still put our support behind Holland, to see what comes of it. Thank you to every one of you, and I'm sure Holland would thank you, as well."

Holland's mother and father begin to shepherd the group of teenagers from the room, and I turn to Justinion, who is voicing my thoughts.

"Damn, now how are we supposed to kill them?"

"Same as always," I mutter, by way of reply. "Now, let's not miss any of this next one, okay? I never caught his parents' names."

"Carrie Love and Donovan Love," Epicure says.

"Wait," Cinian interrupts, as we settle down in our plush seats. "Why were those kids talking about paying to come? And didn't the Screne girl mention that as well? I thought the Presidency paid for transportation."

"Only for blood relatives," Aculeo explains. "If you aren't related to the tribute, you're on your own, unless there's only one relative. Then they'll pay for a friend."

"Sounds… complicated," Cinian says with a sigh. "But isn't everything?"

Falx hushes her, and we turn our attention back to the large screen. Bell is interviewing only two people. There is a man of average height, with reddish blond hair that is thinning towards the middle, and a very tall woman, at least two inches more than her husband, with short, dark hair.

"Hello, parents of Lissom Henley!" Bell says cheerily. "Thank you for being here today! If you would please start off by introducing yourselves..?"

"A pleasure," says the woman, though her voice suggests that it is anything but. "I am Eliza Henley, and my husband is Caleb Henley."

"You've already introduced us as Lissom's parents," says the man.

"What do the two of you do?" Bell asks.

"I'm unemployed," Lissom's father says, his expression not changing. "My wife teaches eighth year in our sector's school."

"What do you think of your daughter's strategy thus far?"

"She's a strong girl… and we're just glad, every day, when we wake up to see her on the recap, to see that she is still alive. We were terrified while that… beast… was chasing her. But our family has a knack for surviving hard times, and we hold on to the hope that we will see our daughter again."

"That's the way to do it!" Bell says brightly. "Now, how did Lissom do in school?"

"Well enough. She never liked school, but she got good marks. She doesn't have her mother's class, so we don't get much detail from the instructors."

"And, have you noticed any health problems? She's awfully small for her age, and her doctor, here in the Capitol, said something about internal bleeding."

"We haven't heard anything about it," Caleb Henley says, keeping his voice level. "But we'll worry about treatment _after_ the Games are over. Lissom has always tried to protect us from problems. I wouldn't put it past her to try to hide something like that…"

"Realistically, do you think your daughter has a chance at winning the Games?"

"If she dies, it won't be another tribute that does it. Lissom's always been good at reading people, and she's smart enough to stay away from the people who'll be able to kill her. She's an intelligent girl. We've not had an easy life, but she would have been able to make a future for herself, was she… still with us."

"I'm awfully sorry, Mister Henley. But she is definitely a strong girl. What about you, Missus Henley? How would you project your daughter's chances?"

Lissom's mother laughs, looking bitter.

"She'll win, or she'll die trying. That's just how Lissom has always operated. Even if it wasn't so high-stakes, she'd be going at it like her life depended on the outcome."

"How do you feel about her alliance?"

Eliza Henley laughs again, though this time, there is a trace of real humor.

"I feel sorry for the boys."

"Well said. Now, if you could offer her any advice, what would it be?"

"To stick with what she knows. My daughter has always been a self preservationist. She may not enjoy life that much, but she always holds on to the belief that, no matter what, it gets better, if you try hard enough. I think, assuming she really is as sick as your doctors say, dying probably won't terribly phase her. Of course, she'll fight it anyway. Death or life, it's better than the arena. I hope she knows that."

"Is there anything in particular that you would tell her not to do?"

"Just… not to get too involved with Holland and Skiff. I know the Eleven boy pushes every one of her buttons, and I know she wants nothing more than to kill him while she still has the games as an excuse… I mean, who hasn't wanted to kill someone, if only for a second? She should leave. She underestimates_ him_, just as he does her."

"Thank you very much, Mister and Missus Henley. I'm very glad you could be here."

Nodding politely, the couple quickly and quietly exit the room.

"That wasn't as exciting as it could have been," Falx sighs. "I need some wine."

"Oh, settle down," Aculeo reprimands him. "Not everyone has a family of disabled schizophrenics."

"Maybe we should do something about that. We're Gamemakers, right?"

"Both of you," I growl. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, I will not put up with this. Falx, don't make me send you out."

Most of us our quiet, after that. Bell announces a commercial, and semi-immediately sits down across from an old man who looks like he hasn't slept in a year, and a twiggy girl who, judging by her pursed mouth and the way her eyebrows are pushed together, would really prefer not to be present.

"Hello!" Bell begins brightly, looking the interviewees up and down. "Welcome, supporters of Skiff Child, to our last familial interview of the day!"

The man mumbles something in reply, and the girl acerbically mutters 'hi'.

"Might I ask you to introduce yourselves?" Bell continued, good mood not hampered in the slightest by their lack of response.

"I'm Zale Child. His father," the man says gruffly.

"I ran into him at one point and the stupid Peacekeepers somehow associated us!" the girl cries. "Come on! He's got to have some other friends, right?"

"And what is your _name_?" Bell pushes.

"Anemone Read. Ann-em-own-ee."

"So, Mister Child, what can you tell me about your son's past?"

"'E's a good kid," Zale Child says gruffly. "Does 'is work. Goes ta school."

"If you don't mind my prying," Bell asks, most definitely meaning to pry, "But what happened to his mother?"

"Died. Years back. Heatstroke in the fields. Lost 'er baby, too."

"That's terrible, Mister Child! How did such a tragedy affect your son?" asks Bell, looking mildly sympathetic.

"Not too bad, I suppose. 'E's a good kid. Pretty normal. Not much wrong with 'im, I'd say."

"And what do you do for a living?" Bell asks, switching topics so fast that I am surprised she isn't affected by whiplash.

"I make shoes. Fix 'em, too. I do some leatherwork, keep me an' the boy fed."

"That's good," Bell says brightly. "Now, what did you say your name was, dear? Annie-Own?"

The girl looks superhumanly annoyed, and shoots Bell a glare that could cut glass. Bell, of course, is completely oblivious to her contempt, smiling eagerly in anticipation of an interview with someone who _talks_.

"An. Em. Own. Ee. Anemone. It's not that hard!" she snaps, bony hands curling into fists. "It's a kind of flower!"

"Quite the firecracker, are we?" Bell says happily, "Now, how do you know Skiff Child?"

The girl heaves a sigh of resignation.

"He ran into me… no, literally. Like, the day of the reaping. And now I've been _abducted_ on _suspicions_ of _being his friend_!"

"So, is there some sort of bad blood between the two of you?"

"Not… really," Anemone says hesitantly. "I mean, I don't have anything against him. He seems okay and all. I just _don't freaking know him_, and no one believes me when I say it!"

"Well, how would you describe your interactions with the tribute?" Bell asks brightly.

"Uh, limited. So, the first time I met him, I was working, right? And he bowled into me at the _exact_ wrong time. And the Head Peacekeeper… I think he was in here earlier! Well, he was being all 'you must be punished'. And, according to him, Skiff 'took pity on me' and 'helped me out'.

"So, why do you think he volunteered?"

"To be honest, the Peacekeeper guy was playing some serious mind games. Skiff's got some issues with girls, I think. Again, I met him for about twenty seconds. So, the mother-dead-thing explained a lot." She turns to Zale Child. "By the way, I'm sorry about your wife."

"What was going through your head as he walked up to the stage?"

"To be honest? For a second, I thought it was my fault. Then, I remembered it was him who freaking volunteered. Then, I felt sorry for the guy, because he was gonna die."

"Do you hold out any hope that he will win?" Bell asks, with an air of finality.

"No," Anemone answers flatly. "No. He's volunteered to get himself killed, and that's what's gonna happen."

"Then thank you for your time, Miss Read, Mister Child."

"I'd better get fed for this!" Anemone cries as she is escorted from the room, followed by Skiff's father.

"Now, Panem," Bell continues, paying no attention to the room that is no entirely devoid of people, save the cameramen. "You have seen an entirely new perspective into the lives of the tributes you know and love. To return to round the clock coverage of the Hunger Games, tune in to TGL Live. May these games be the best so far, and have a good night, viewers!"

She flashes a brilliant smile, and the cameras, one by one, turn off. The edited interviews will air in an hour or so, and we know full well that the techs are working overtime to keep the entire thing clean, smooth, and seamless.

"So, _now_ what are we going to do?" Cinian asks, aghast. "Now that we've met their… their friends? Parents? What do we _do_? Oh my God… what do we _do_?"

Justinion laughs.

"This is your first year, Cin. Our next job is to kill off whoever we decide we like the least."

"That's _awful_!" She cries. "How do you do this? And don't call me that!" she adds as an afterthought.

"Well," Epicure says gently, giving Justinion a reprimanding look. "Think about, it, Cinian. If we don't, we get axed… and someone else will. Someone worse. Consider this. You are now in a position of power, and you can influence who survives. So if you see someone truly good, you can help keep them around."

"Oh," Falx interrupts. "And, by 'axed', he means literally."

This time, it's me giving the dirty look. "Gamemaker Darcy, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from terrifying Gamemaker Liaison."

He shoots me an annoyed glance by way of reply, sarcastically adding "Noted, _Head Gamemaker Udine_."

It's hard to resist the urge to roll my eyes, but Cinian demands more immediate attention.

"Oh my God," she breathes. "Oh my God. They'd kill me? Xenia? Epicure? Is that true? No one said they'd kill me!" Her eyes are wide, and I can see white all the way around her eyes. It's not as bad as it has been, to be honest. Cinian was recruited differently than most of us, straight out of University. Whenever she discovers some new facet into the job, she panics- often quite severely.

"Cinian," Epicure says gingerly, "Calm down. Now, back before President Norris, yes, that's the way it would be. But… things change, you know? Maybe you would be… demoted, as long as the transgression was minor."

She notices the 'maybe'. It's not easy to fool Cinian, even when she is in a state of hysterics.

"Okay, look," Aculeo snaps. "You could be _in_ the arena."

Not surprisingly at all, his opinion doesn't help. After about ten minutes, Cinian, miserable and spent, excuses herself. Either to vomit or to go home. Likely both.

"Well, I hate to sound cold," Aculeo finally says, indeed sounding cold. "But I don't care for Holland, myself."

"You know you love to," Justinion fires back, smirking. "And I agree that our next intervention ought to involve that trio. Alliances that big shouldn't last."

"Which will we be targeting?" I ask, resigned. "I say one of the boys. Even out the gender ratio. Besides, doesn't the girl have an awful lot of supporters?"

"She's got that one foundation for chronic illness raising money as we speak. I've already gotten a phone call. Me. Really. First off, I'm a _Gamemaker_. Second of all, I've never given them a penny in the past," Falx says scathingly. "I would almost advocate getting rid of her, just for that, if she wasn't so interesting to watch."

Justinion nods to Falx.

"I agree. Keep the girl. I want her to kill the Eleven boy, or the other way around. But I suppose we could make it indirect."

"She'd definitely turn on him if the Eight boy died," Aculeo suggests sullenly. I can tell he doesn't want to be in the conversation, but doesn't want to be excluded, either. "It would be visually powerful."

"Agreed," I say reluctantly. "Let's discuss this tomorrow, okay? Everybody, go home and rest."

"Goodnight, Xenia," Epicure says, leaving quickly.

Falx and Justinion follow, arguing about whether Lissom Henley or Skiff Child would win in a fight. Like always. If that kind of ignorance wasn't so necessary to the job, I would never have agreed to their recommendation to the board of Gamemakers.

"Are you alright?" Aculeo asks me, packing his briefcase in preparation to leave.

"This job gets more difficult every year," I sigh.

"I don't believe I've ever asked, but how many years have you been on the board?" he queries surprising me. "I've only been on for thirty-three, myself, and this is the thirty-fourth. I think I remember you, from my first day. Am I making that up?"

I am so tired. I feel older than I ever have before.

"No, Aculeo," I say, my voice finally reflecting my age. "I've been on the board for well over fifty years. Since I was twenty-eight. I know you can do the math, my friend, but I am far too tired to explain. Good night."

And then, without further explanation, I leave. I was expecting relief, to finally tell one of my compatriots the last vestige of a secret that I hold. But no, not the case.

I just feel old. So very old. So tired. My hands slip at the wheel of my vehicle, and my eyes briefly come back into focus as I correct my position in the lane. It's been such a long day. My head aches. I want to go to sleep.

My eyes close again, and I force them open. It's not that late, really. So why do I feel so tired? The lights that make the pastel road gleam seem duller than usual, and life takes on an odd, bluish hue. My eyes feel heavy. Very heavy. The roadway is empty, and my vehicle has a setting to take me home. I twist a switch, though my arm moves as if through sand, and then fall limp into my chair.

My skin feels fuzzy… odd, and… not right. Oh, very much not right. I try to force my eyes to open again, but this time, they weigh simply too much.

And I can't feel my feet. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I want to call to someone, tell someone, scream… but I can'tIcan'tIcan't… my face relaxes, and I feel for all the world like I am falling asleep…

-x

Xenia Udine died that night. Her hovercar rolled into its dock, just as her last command had directed it to. Foul play is not suspected. She was eighty-two years old. She left behind two pet mice, a canary, a younger sister, and a staff of six Gamemakers…

**-x**

**Next chapter, we will return to the games. **

**Now, I apologize for how long that took. These chapters, together, are over 10100 words long. I would appreciate it, more than anything, if you could take the time to review it. I have not been slacking off on this chapter. Rather, this is simply ten days of my life spent writing. So an enormous thanks are due to anyone who reviews it.**

_This update's question_: How old do you think you will live to be? How old would you _like_ to live to be?


	43. Break

**Break**

**Lectic (D3)**

"I think you ought to check the engine, while we're up," Demetra says mildly, as we stretch our legs in the slushy road, the car pulled off to the curb and turned off.

"Yeah, good idea," I say. "Did anything seem awry?"

I grab my tool belt from the passenger seat, and begin to crawl beneath the car.

"No, not really," she admits. "But I can't stand how freaking slow the stupid car goes."

"Well, I could have told you why," I call from underneath the large automobile. "The fuel containment system is enormous. It doesn't leave much room for an engine, so I'm guessing that the system is running at capacity… which is about ten, almost fifteen miles an hour."

Demetra groans exaggeratedly.

"English, genius?"

"Oh, come on. You're not stupid," I sigh.

"But the audience is. _English_," she repeats, annoyed.

"The gas tank is big," I sigh. "Because it is so big, the engine is smaller. Though it seems extremely resilient in construction, it simply isn't powerful enough to move the car along… though, when I say it like that, considering the technology available in the Capitol, it seems unlikely. I think that the only thing I'm going to be able to confirm is that they don't _want _us going faster than fifteen."

She shrugs, walking over to me and nudging my foot with her flamethrower, which I still find immensely terrifying.

"Screw them, make the car go fast," she informs me.

"I don't have tools… parts… I really would, if I could. But most of the things in my tool belt would be better as weapons… I think that's what they're meant for," I sigh. "Or, alternately, some of these would work if I was trying to rewire a more advanced electronic, like a computer."

"Well, spare me your techno-whatever," she grumbles, kicking at a chunk of ice. "I'm bored. Are you ready to take off?"

"Sure, just give me a second to stretch."

"That's what we stopped for, smart one. Procrastinate much?"

"Oh, you're one to talk," I mutter, pulling one knee up to my chest, then stretching out and repeating the process with the other. "Why don't you just run around the car or something? Keep your legs from tightening up."

"Shut up," she sighs. "I'm getting in the car."

"I'll catch up," I call after her. Not that she listens. Of course not. I find myself smiling, without really meaning to.

Once I finish, I stride over to the car, which she has already started. As I reach for the handle, she lurches ahead about ten feet, and my stomach momentarily implodes in on itself. I run to the door again, yanking the handle open before she can drive away again.

"What was that?" I yell, more franticly than I intend. "What the heck?"

She grins and steps on the gas again. This time, I run to keep up, throwing myself into the car the second it begins to slow down and slamming the door. She has dissolved into laughter by the time I buckle my seatbelt.

"That, Lectic, was _fun_. You should have seen your face! You actually thought I was gonna just drive away with all the food and leave you to die!" Then she realizes that she may have accidentally said something implying that she wouldn't, and quickly covers her tracks. "I mean, how am I supposed to make this stupid thing run without you?"

But the damage has been done, and I almost forget to be mad at her. Luckily, I keep in mind the fact that she's most definitely not above hurting me, and don't point out her slip.

"Well, what would I do in that case?" I ask, after giving her a chastising look.

"Uhh…" she trails off. "Die? Y'know, without me, you don't have much entertainment value. They'd send their bird-mutt after you."

"Bird-mutt?" I ask, surprised. "What bird-mutt?"

Looking down at me, she snorts.

"You haven't seen it?"

"Uh, I guess I should pay more attention to my surroundings, yeah. But to be fair, this doesn't really feel like the games, you know? I've got food… shelter… even a loose, noncommittal friend."

"Stop being so disgustingly sappy. Anyway, the bird. I think it's big. Really big. But it flies away whenever I'm looking at it, you know? Like I'm not the one it wants," she says, almost breathlessly, and I get the sense that it has been bothering her.

"So, what? You think they're rigging it in your favor?" I ask.

"Not… really…" she says, struggling to articulate. "But… okay, maybe a little. To be fair, we're probably in the best condition to fight something like that off, out of all the kids in here. But still, it's a bit surprising that, you know, my sparkling wit and dazzling personality have been enough to make us entertaining."

"Well, I'm actually not too surprised," I begin, not really sure where the words are coming from.

She swerves the car, right, then left.

"Lectic," she says, her voice hushed and frantic. ". Be quiet. Oh _shit_!"

The car swerves again, and the wheels struggle to gain traction on the icy ground. Something has changed. Demetra doesn't scare easily, and she is terrified. I am instantly on the alert.

"What's wrong?" I whisper.

"Shitshitshit_shit_! They heard me!"

"The Gamemakers?" I reply urgently. She nods. "Of course they heard you. What did you say?"

"I shouldn't have said it," she growls, swerving again. "Oh shit, Lectic, can't you just look out the window?"

It does seem darker, outside. But I am reluctant to turn, because there is already panic gripping my throat. "Look!" Demetra insists, twisting the steering wheel crazily while checking the rearview mirror, flattening herself against the wheel and muttering "Shit!" again, for good measure.

Before I get the chance, claws rake the roof of the car with a sound akin to that of a cat's death call. Demetra utters a string of curses, and stamps the gas pedal desperately.

Peering out the windshield, I finally see it.

Though the wings are more immediately within view, I can't look away from the head. It's like some deity decided to create an enormous bird's face, but decided to stop before adding feathers and skin. The flesh is raw and pink and wrinkled and scabby and makes me think of a thousand things that I didn't know existed to be contemplated.

Then there's the eye. Round and yellow, surrounded by a ring of bloodshot white, unblinking.

In entirety, the head probably weighs about twenty-five pounds. Likely to justify the impressive wingspan, that stretches beyond the view of the windshield as the bird wheels up into the sky, circling again and letting out a noise that grates on every instinct, driving me to run, run, runrunrunandhideand_don'tletitgetme_, reducing my thought process to a soggy, cowering heap.

Somewhere, I register Demetra's screaming.

"LECTIC FOR THE LOVE OF GOD _LISTEN TO ME_!"

She grips my shoulder, and the rhythmic sound of her compressing the gas pedal brings me back, at least momentarily, from panic. I bite my lip, still trembling, fighting the urge to jump from the car and run. It's suicidal, but my instincts don't care.

"Okay, now pay attention! I see a sign up ahead! I need you to take my seat, keep the car going, but _not too fast_. You got it? Keep the passenger door open, just in case, but slam it shut if I don't make it back, _okay_?"

I nod numbly, dragging myself into her seat. The light around the car begins to dim again, and I can feel it, I can feel the huge bird's presence like a steady throbbing throughout my body. In a second, its claws are on the car, and its wings are beating furiously, trying to… trying to…

Seconds before me, Demetra, better at coping with panic, reaches the conclusion with a gasp.

"It's trying to carry us off!"

Though I want to do calculations… the size of the bird, the span of the wings, the energy its diet provides, the weight of the car… I can barely keep my thoughts focused on 'There is a bird. It is very big. Its curved, scimitar-like beak suggests that it is predatory.'

"Okay, that is it!" Demetra growls, grabbing her flamethrower, adjusting the bottles, turning the little dial up to the highest setting, which I have advised her in the past not to try. She straps the device on, drags me into the drivers' seat, props open the car door with a foot, crosses her arms over her chest, and barrel-rolls out of the car.

Remembering her words, I slam the door behind her, then reach over and open the passenger door a hair. I ease up on the gas, but struggle to stay calm as the tires lose traction on the road, and I am jerked, along with the car, another centimeter into the air.

In a few seconds, Demetra has picked herself up, and is running alongside the car, easily keeping up. At this point, it feels like I can see what will happen next. She'll psyche herself up. Try to put the adversary off guard. Then either she will kill the bird, or she will die. And all I can think is 'Please… please don't die.' Because I don't want her to.

"Now listen here, feather-bag!" She shrieks. "Let! Go!"

The bird shrieks right back, and I force myself not to let go of the steering wheel to cover my ears. Demetra pulls the trigger of the flamethrower without hesitation, and I duck beneath the window seconds before she washes the car, and the bird, in a torrent of flame.

With a screaming cry, the bird drops the car, wheeling off into the sky, leaving a trail of smoke. But it doesn't leave. I am now close enough to the sign to read it. Rest Stop: 1 mile. Next Rest Stop: 117 miles.

I wish I knew what a rest stop was.

Demetra is beginning to jog around the car, though she glances up at the bird's position in the sky every so often. I think she has seen the sign, as well.

"What's a rest stop?" she whispers urgently through the door.

"It's a place… where you stop driving, and rest," I suggest, though I am only just piecing it together myself.

"Okay, fine," she replies. "Drive faster. I'll catch up."

She slams the door before I can stop her, and I step on the gas, feeling my heart sink. Even now… relatively clear-headed, though pumped full of adrenaline… I don't want her to be killed. Not without me.

"Come and get me!" She yells up to the bird. "You won't be stealing any cars! Not today!"

It wheels through the sky, screaming, then compresses its wings flat against its body, diving faster than I would have believed possible for something so buoyant in the air. Demetra steadies her flamethrower, aiming carefully. When it is under five hundred feet away from her, I can't take it. I slam on the brakes, grab my screwdriver, and bolt from the car, in what may be the worst decision of my life.

"You idiot," she hisses. "Hit the pavement."

I drop to my knees just in time to see the towering column of flame erupt from her flamethrower. The smell of burning feathers fills the air. Smoke billows from the huge shape. Somehow, the bird manages to fly out of range, though it trails ash and soot as its enormous wings claw at the air.

"It's coming back," I tell her quietly. "To survive that, it must have several layers of feathers. You have to kill it."

"And how do you intend to help me?" she snaps. "Back to the car, Lectic. I don't want you getting yourself killed, you hear me? Go!"

"To what end?" I argue. "I'm not going down without a fight, okay?"

"That's the thing! You rush out here with a screwdriver thinking you can take on anything! That's not how fighting works, okay? That's why you district kids keep getting killed!"

As she rants, the bird has angled its flight down for another strike. This time, without me to distract her, her aim improves. The thin tower of flame hits the bird dead in the face, catching the downy black plumage around its fleshy neck. The sound it makes is one of pain. This time, feathers alight, it careens down towards us. Demetra meets it with another blast of flame, and yanks the screwdriver from my hands as the enormous body hits the asphalt.

She sprints up, burying the tool in the bird's head, then again, until the bulging yellow eyes are closed. Not five seconds later, she returns to my side, wordlessly returning the bloody screwdriver.

"Uh, thanks," I say, my heart beating through my chest as I look out over the mutt that was the first real way I could have died. "I wonder if there are any more?"

"Almost definitely," she answers shortly. "Let's go."

I wonder why she won't meet my eyes as we climb back into the car, her once again in the drivers' seat, me gripping the bloody weapon. The car has never really been off, and she stamps the gas pedal. We speed off, through the slush of ash, snow, and a trace of blood. The mile passes quietly. Not really awkward, but tired. We are both spent.

A one-lane road slopes to the right, which is, luckily, the side of the road we are on. Demetra and I exchange looks, for the first time since leaving the bird's body, and she turns on to it, slowing down. We pass a large blue sign that says 'Rest Stop'.

"Good," Demetra sighs. "I could use a rest."

We continue to move slowly, both of us alert. A building rises up before us. It is simple and sparse, a high metal roof and concrete walls that do not entirely reach it, likely as a ventilation system. There are three small but brightly colored machines in front, and a pink sign with a drawing of a figure in a dress to the left, and a dark blue sign with a drawing of a figure in trousers to the right.

"Interesting," I comment.

"Let's go check it out," Demetra suggests, though she sounds apprehensive. The white paint on the concrete is yellowed and aged. It looks like the Gamemakers have touched it up, but the whole thing could easily have been around for centuries. "I'll take the pink lady, you take the blue guy."

I nod, and she stops the car. We exit the vehicle, walking carefully, quietly, her flamethrower and my screwdriver at the ready. Once we enter the cavernous structure, which lacks doors, we split up, me to the right and her to the left, separated by a partition. There is a door to my side, though it does not appear to be locked. I pull it open with some effort.

Once inside, I am greeted by the flickering of thinly covered yellow bulbs on the ceiling. Our arrival has been anticipated, and the lights are on. The second thing I notice is the smell. Definitely a bathroom. Three urinals grace the wall to my right, along with a row of sinks. To the other side is a row of ten stalls that I walk by quickly. None are occupied. Then, at the end… my pace quickens… a flimsy plastic curtain. I pull it aside, screwdriver at the ready.

There is a shiny spout attached to the wall, and a drain in the floor, which is brown tile surrounded by black grout… more likely, white grout turned black. The spigot and drain seem like the most recent additions. I hear an echoing whoop from the other side of the building, and race out of the bathroom, around the partition, and into the other room, which is the same, though it lacks urinals.

"Demetra?" I call.

"Hey, Lectic!" she cries in reply. "What are you doing in here? This is the _girls_ room, dumbass."

"I resent that," I grumble, but I push out the door, waiting on a grey concrete bench. She exits shortly afterwards, a dreamy look on her face.

"I'd forgotten how good it felt to have clean hands," she sighs. "Anyway, you won't believe this, but-"

I cut her off. "There's a shower in there, right?"

She makes a face at me. "Rain on my parade, why don't you? Anyway, I'm taking a shower. Finally. But after that, and this is the important part," she says, "I'm teaching you how to fight properly."

Then she disappears back into the bathroom, humming to herself when she thinks I can't hear her.

**-x**

**Happy Valentine's Day! A little late, but this is an all Lectic and Demetra chapter for those of you who miss them. How I adore the duo. :)**

_This update's question:_ In the spirit of Valentine's Day, do you see any couples emerging in the story?


	44. Hiemal

**Hiemal**

**Demetra (D2)**

"So why do I need to learn how to hit, anyway?"

"I think we've gone over this before, Lectic," I sigh, shaking my head. "We haven't got a clue what the Careers found in the Cornucopia. If there was one flamethrower, there could be more. Or something worse. Like a Gatling gun. Damn, why couldn't we have gotten the Gatling gun?"

He still looks skeptical.

"I don't see any reason for them to have a Gatling gun in the arena, Demetra. I mean, one flamethrower… maybe the Gamemakers like fire. Maybe there's going to be a moment when having the flamethrower is going to do us in. But even if there were another serious, high-powered long-range weapon, who but you would know how to use it?"

There, it's certain. Lectic underestimates District Two. Maybe not the Careers as a whole… I doubt most of the idiots from Four would know an AK-27 from a pistol. Diele, I'm not so sure about. But Lucian, messed up as he is, had my mom as an instructor. You have to, if you want to keep your pass to the Center. And if you want to stay in her class, you better be good.

"Lucian would. Come to think of it, I don't believe I've ever seen him shoot. But he's in my mom's group, which means he's good. I think I've heard her mention his name…" I trail off, trying unsuccessfully to remember the context.

"And?" Lectic prompts, looking relieved to have the subject turned away from punching.

"It wasn't negatively," I groan. "Damn, damn, damn. I should have killed the little rat at the Cornucopia. He got it by the Gamemakers, somehow."

I've never been the best in terms of marksmanship, though I'm not saying that out loud. Suddenly, something clicks into place. _That's _where I remember Lucian from. About three years ago… I think he would have been a twelve. Mom mentioned that he had been in an accident, along with one of her friends from grade school. That he seemed okay, just a little funny. Grandma suggested that he was on drugs, since all young people are on drugs, which made me laugh.

Mom was all serious, calling him a good shot if she'd ever seen one, funny or not.

"What's wrong?" Lectic asks, looking concerned at my angry silence. "Are you okay?"

"That's why the Careers keep dying!" I observe suddenly, snapping my fingers. "Dylan's too much of a pansy, and Diele's too intent on playing by the rules! It's him!"

"Didn't you say earlier that Lucian wasn't competition?" Lectic asks charily.

"Of course not. Don't be an idiot," I sigh, though I don't doubt that I did. "He's the smartest one in this arena…"

"Okay, let's not overreact," Lectic begins, ignoring the warning look I shoot his way. "The Careers have metal clubs. We have a flamethrower… okay, _you_ have a flamethrower that _I _am not allowed to touch."

"You're right. Lucian isn't all that effective with a close up weapon. I'll bet he's got a flamethrower, too. It's him we need to worry about. I can get rid of the other two easy, close up or ranged. But I know the build he has, and believe me, he's not been _wrestling_ his kills to death…" I trail off again, giving Lectic a hard stare. "Okay, against him, anything close and personal is invalid."

"So I don't have to punch anybody?" Despite himself, Lectic looks relieved. I roll my eyes.

"I wouldn't have you punching anybody, even if you _did_ need the skill. As it is, I s'pose you can have the bare minimum. I mean, so you can fend off, say, one of the District kids, assuming they are weaponless and maybe intoxicated. At least, until I wake up, assuming I am not around to kill them, and, by extension, asleep."

"Wait, I thought you just wanted me to scream really loud while they kill me?"

"Ehh, this'll help with that, too."

I punch him in the stomach, focusing the blow across my fist, and taking care to avoid anything too vital.

"Ow!" Lectic cries "I'm not a punching bag, okay? What _was _that?"

"Exactly what you are not supposed to do."

He doubles over, crossing his arms protectively, and eyeing me with caution.

"First of all, that makes no sense. And second of all, should I expect you to punch me again?"

"No, no more punching. 'Cause most of this stuff, if I do it, will kill you. And then I'd get my hands all bloody, which would make me sad. Blood is really hard to get out from under fingernails, you know?"

Lectic looks up at me and grimaces.

"Why did that hurt so much?" He finally asks. "I've been punched in the stomach before."

"By someone with no clue what they were doing," I correct. "I've violent all my life. Also, you have no abdominal muscle whatsoever. And in the unlikely event that you make it out of the arena, first, do some freaking crunches, genius. Then keep an eye on people who look like they want to punch you. Tense up your nonexistent muscles beforehand, and it'll damage your internal organs less."

"Why did you punch me, then? Do you want my spleen to explode? I don't have a mockingjay suit, or a team of surgeons, Demetra. If you blow up my spleen, I die. Oh, yeah, and you might get some bile on that lovely orange jumpsuit."

I'm mildly impressed at his tirade, but I roll my eyes anyway, which tends to make him madder. He's not even going to try to hurt me, in part because he's so disgustingly _nice_, but in equal measure because he has only just illustrated what I will be encouraged to reply with if he does.

He realizes it at about the exact same time that I do, and sighs. "Okay, Demetra. You win. Now, how am I to inflict this same level of pain to those who wish me ill?"

"I've said it before, Lectic, you're not punching anyone any time soon. You've got a spindly little hand, and if you were to risk your neck and hit me in the chest, I'd see it coming a mile away. I would be able to block your strike with my lower arm, in part because you're so short, like this."

I slowly draw his fist towards my solar plexus in emulation of an actual blow, turning it aside as I pull my arm up to divert the punch.

"My point is, the second you make a fist, I'm ready to defend myself. We've got to assume that the rest of the people in here are the same. Better to err on the side of caution, right?"

The bones in his knuckles stand out stark white against his taut dark skin as he inspects the fist. Lectic nods slowly. "Is that it?"

"Not quite," I laugh. "Also, see those bones in your hand?"

Apprehensively, he nods.

"Of course you do. Especially in your case, they're fragile as hell. If you throw a bad punch, let's say you hit me on the lower rib cage… no, down here… it would break your knuckles. My ribs trump your hand. Especially since you're deficient in, oh, let's see, _everything_."

"I get plenty of nutrition!" Lectic objects, pulling his arm away. "And speaking of which, those sandwiches are going bad. We need more food."

"Well, do we ask for it? I'm sure my beauty and charm has attracted the attention of a few sponsors."

"Naturally," sighs Lectic, looking derelict as he throws himself down on one of the concrete benches.

"Oh, cheer up. I mean, you're…" I look at him for a few seconds, trying to think of the proper adjective. "Cute."

"Cute?" He asks, astonished.

"Okay, maybe 'cute' is a little too strong," I correct, shrugging.

"No, seriously. You mean, like, squirrel-cute? Baby-cute?"

"Hold on a second. You think squirrels are cute?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. Really?

"Never mind," he groans. "Why was that the word you used?"

For a second, I seriously consider it.

"Probably something to do with your face," I suggest. "You know, you're not really the handsome type. Sorry to break it to you. And you completely lack any sort of muscular structure. So 'hot' is out, too. Don't give me that look."

He rolls his eyes.

"Okay, now that you've destroyed any trace of an ego I have left, can you explain?"

"Uh. Okay. Well," I search, again, for the right words. "You've got pretty eyelashes."

"Pretty. There's a good one. Why don't we just stick with cute, and go set something on fire?"

"Nice try, but you're not going to distract me. I've got all the time in the world to indulge in pyromania."

"There're a whole lot of very surprised dead people who would like to differ."

"Shut up, Lectic," I say, not really paying attention. "Maybe it's the eyes? You have very round eyes, y'ever notice that?"

In reply, he puts his head in his hands and sighs. Too bad. I'm on a roll.

"Also, I might as well point out that you have no hair. Probably a stylist thing. But, still, bald. Don't worry, that's a complement. Wish they'd shaved _my_ head."

"Please, please, please, let's talk about something other than me. I'm sorry I asked, okay? Maybe you can go back to punching me?"

What I can see of his ears is tinted pinkish. I laugh in delight. Fun for me _and_ embarrassing for Lectic? It's not often you hit on something like that!

"As if. This is so much more fun!" I crow. "Now, as for your gracefulness… or lack thereof… I suppose that's rather endearing. You are like a penguin. Except you injure yourself more. And, as I've said before, you are bald. Penguins have feathers."

Without giving me time to get on his case about it, Lectic stalks to the car, stumbles on some loose asphalt to prove my point, and locks himself in the car. I double over with laughter. It's so fun to make smart people uncomfortable.

Once I am content that there is no more damage I can do, I grab my flamethrower and decide to attend to the problem of getting food. I don't want to take what the sponsors have to offer before Lectic and I actually need it.

The bird from earlier didn't look all that edible, so I decide against that as an option for food. I lope around the open shelter that is the rest stop, coming to a halt in front of the three colorful machines.

Red neon plastic-lights aren't all that appealing, but I notice some highly saturated images of food drawn on the one that is closest to me. There is a neon pink thing on a stick, and a few smaller ones in multiple colors. One is shaped like a square, and is yellow, but has a bizarre face with hugely inflated eyes and a protruding nose. I had ice cream in the Capitol, and there are some similar depictions accompanying the stick-colors and face-thing. The last images are of two cookies with a layer of white sandwiched between them, and a pair of dark brown crackers with similar contents.

None of it looks very appealing.

I move on to the next boxy machine, which has a durable plastic panel protecting its contents. While nothing is clearly food, at least a few of the parcels inside have pictures that promise delicious contents. Mm. I move on, keeping the machine in mind.

The third is similar to the first. It is blue and glows steadily, but the pictures are of uninteresting things, like bottles. I push one of the huge buttons, which has a drawing of a pale blue bottle reading 'Dasini', and nothing happens. I walk back over to the glass-paneled machine, and experimentally put my weight on the clear part. There is almost no give, but probably enough to stop me from kicking it open.

With a sigh, I abandon it and walk over to the car, knocking on the window. Lectic is rereading the instruction manual from the compartment in the passenger seat. He jumps at the noise, gives me a look, and unlocks the door.

"Hey," I say immediately. "I need something metal. That screwdriver, or something bigger. Like a wrench. You got anything?"

He doesn't even look surprised, and I mentally applaud him.

"Here," he says, handing me his screwdriver. "Knock yourself out."

"Thanks, squirrel-boy," I shoot over my shoulder. He sighs, shutting the car door again. I wonder if there is anything else interesting about the machines? I'll have to ask Lectic when he's less out of sorts.

I march myself blithely back to the machines, inspecting the screwdriver. The tip is shaped a little like a plus sign. It doesn't terribly matter, I suppose, but I like to get to know the tools that I carry.

No lights blink in the windowed machine, unlike the two that flank it. I face the glass panel. The sky feels dark, and I look up to see that the sun is beginning to sink behind the horizon line. Better get it over with.

I slam the screwdriver's base into the widow. The force sends reverberations up my arm, but doesn't break the sheet. Not even a crack. Autonomously, my mouth contorts in displeasure. I hit the same spot again, about four times, until I see a hairline fracture. Easily, I flip the screwdriver in my hand mid-blow and continue to beat the glass until I have a fist sized hole.

Somewhere in the din, Lectic joins me, looking on with curiosity.

"You know," he finally says, "There's a place where you can put in a coin. I don't think that's how you're supposed to get the food."

He's right, unfortunately. There is a little black slot, surrounded by blinking green lights. It's a little too big for the copper coins we took, but would probably fit one of the bigger silvery coins.

"I don't really like machines," I finally say. "And this one feels really wrong. I don't like them at all. I think I'd rather get it this way."

I'm dead serious, for once, and I think Lectic notices. He nods.

"I trust you," he says, then shrugs. "I'm going to go take a shower. I don't think my knees are too bad any more. They've pretty much healed themselves up. I'll be able to do the dressings myself. You eat whatever you want, but leave something salty for me, if you can."

With a little smile, he walks away. I grope around inside the machine a bit, pulling out a variety of brightly colored packages and widening the hole a bit. I don't think that much. It's something of a mindless task. So once I've collected all but a few items I can't reach, I begin to wonder why on earth Lectic, the smartest person I know, would be so mind-numbingly stupid as to trust me.

Then I eat a sticky bun, because I'm hungry. And more or less forget about Lectic in the task of scrubbing off my hands in the bathroom.

Thinking about him can wait. I'll have plenty of time to do it once he's… dead?

I shake my head and go back to scrubbing my palms with fragrant pink soap. That thought didn't really fit in my head. Funny. I'll have to go torch something cute and fuzzy. Before I go soft.

-x

**Skiff Child (D11)**

I am so hungry. Really, really hungry. Where there ought to be _something_, there is a vacuum in my abdomen, sucking out my strength and my will to keep walking. Also, the snow is melting, which is both nice and disappointing. For one, Lissom will stop complaining about it. And just having her around is already going against every instinct in my body.

The snow was pretty, though. Also a water source. A way to keep my stomach full of something, at least.

Last thing I ate… was that cockroach. Ugh. But I threw it up about half an hour later. I think Lissom might have, too, but I'm not sure. She always looks like she's about to throw up, so I've got no point of reference in terms of behavior.

Holland has finally given up on trying to keep things from being awkward, and we're walking through the slush in silence. All of us are hunched over with the cold and the pain of hunger, but Lissom's looking the worst. While Holland has turned extremely rosy in the cold, looking perpetually embarrassed, she seems to have lost whatever color she had in the first place. Her eyes are sunken, black against her pallor, and her hair seems wispy and colorless. The bruises around her neck are a sickly yellow-green.

She seems to be dealing with it better than we are, though. Or at least, better than Holland. It's hard not to feel sorry for him. He's lost a lot of weight, and his face has taken on sort of tired cast. Droopy and defeated. Like a puppy who's been left outside for a few days, and is about to give up on being let back into the house ever again.

I can't imagine I look any better, though I would guess that my skin doesn't show the extent of my starvation as theirs does. Lissom's toes have an ugly purplish tinge, and Holland's fingers have the same look to them, but both of them are much fairer than I am.

"How many days has it been now, Ten?" Holland croaks, breaking the relative silence.

"One and a half since the gas station, four since the food ran out," Lissom replies, though she sounds no more awful than normal. I have conflicting thoughts about her. My instincts tell me that she is a serious threat, not to be trusted, to be removed as soon as possible. That she will kill me, or Holland, as easily as she did the enormous cockroach.

I doubt she'll eat us, but who can say?

Then there's how fragile she is. About four foot five, four foot seven at most. Emaciated upon entering the arena, though the weeks in the Capitol had filled out some of the hollow places, her cheeks, the area around her eyes. She could be a tall, starving seven. And a girl, to boot. The sort of person I would have given coins to if I had passed in the market… out of pity, just… wanting them to be safe. Not wanting to be guilty of their eventual deaths. People like Lissom don't live very long in District Eleven.

Vaguely, I wonder what my mom would think of her. Most likely would laugh and declare her to have spirit. Mom liked girls with 'spirit', whatever intangible criteria that is. A lot of good it did her.

I almost hope Holland or Lissom will start to talk. I feel frustrated beyond words, and I just want to… let it out. Yell at someone. The Gamemakers. This… this is their fault! I'm dying! There! I've finally thought it… I'm dying! My muscles are softening, my mind is growing fuzzy, I'm so, so tired… my body is dying around me _and it's their fault!_

…and it's only been four days since the food ran out…

…but it's so cold…

...and we're only children…

I must look absolutely miserable. Lissom notices, certainly.

"Holland, we need to stop," she says roughly. "Find a dry spot. Skiff's not doing so well."

My blood boils at the fact that it's me who needs to stop, that I'm the load. But it's true. I need to sit. I can't keep walking. And I'm too tired to argue. Somehow, I end up on the ground. My stomach hurts so much… like it's splitting in two.

Lissom squats beside me, rocking on her bare heels, her knees pressed up to her chest.

"Okay, Skiff, now I need you to listen to me. Put your hands over your stomach. Gentle pressure, now. Push down just a little. I promise you'll feel better. Think of something nice. Remember that bridge from earlier?"

"No," I groan, though I am more than a little startled by how human she is acting. Sympathetic.

"Okay. Think of District Eleven, then. Something pretty. Something happy. Something you can really think about. Distract yourself, okay? It's been four days. Usually it hurts less by the fifth. Trust me on this."

"No 'fense, Ten," Holland says slowly, "But isn't Ten supposed to be… better off than Eleven? Shouldn't Skiff be giving us advice? And also, you're… smaller… than us, so why are you doing better?"

She sighs, wiggling her toes, likely in an attempt to get feeling back into them. I'm wearing shoes, and I'm numb, too.

"Just stop with the Ten thing, Holland," she sighs. "I'd rather be Lissom."

"Okay," he says happily. "But my questions still stand. And the 'no offense' part."

"Believe it or not, Holland," Lissom begins. "Not all the districts are exactly like your mental picture. Not all people in Eleven are starving, and not all people in Ten own cows and have milk every morning. Though I'm guessing that Eleven is collectively poorer, it's completely possible that Skiff is better off than me."

Sometimes I forget how smart Holland is. But he definitely understands exactly what she's saying, and doesn't press at her for further elaboration.

"I'd hazard a guess that District Eight isn't as well off as you think," she adds. "But everything I told Skiff goes for you, too. Gentle pressure on the stomach."

Holland carefully adjust himself into the same position she is in, his knees up to his chest, arms around them, curling around himself and smiling with relief. "How long did you say before we start feeling better?" he asks.

"About a day. The lancing pains will go away. But you'll be tired. Hopefully the snow will melt by then."

"It's _really _cold," I groan. But it's like I'm noticing it for the first time, now that some of the pain of hunger is relieved. "It is really, really cold."

"Don't worry, Skiff," Holland says cheerfully. "They won't kill us like this. It'll warm up a bit. What we should be worried about are mutts, and _I_ don't see any!"

"Don't we have sponsors?" Lissom finally asks. "I mean, food would be really nice…"

"And expensive," Holland reminds her. "We'd be lucky to get a blanket, unless we do something drastic."

"So… let's be drastic," she suggests.

"That's not going to fly well," I inform her. "We're weak, young, and I'm guessing our main appeal is our age, it being a disadvantage."

"Okay, so let's be cute," Lissom continues. "Let's… huddle together for warmth. That should get us a blanket."

"Won't the sponsors be a bit turned off by our little gambit?" I ask. "I mean, since they can see everything we do?"

"That's the Gamemakers, Skiff," Holland reminds me. "Sponsors only see what the Gamemakers want them to."

Holland ends up pushed into the middle, since Lissom and I, despite the situation which seems to have temporarily alleviated our distaste for each other, really don't want to be too close. We press together, in the middle of the road, just next to the median. And, at first, it's awkward. But there's also a lot of relief, knowing that we aren't alone. And I still feel tired, of course, but the hunger is only a dull ache.

I'm about to inquire about whether we ought to consider drinking something when the package falls. Lissom is on her feet in an instant, snatching it from the air before it can touch the damp asphalt.

The package itself is square, about a foot and a half wide. Lissom neatly cuts the silver wrapping with her knife, and pulls out a dark brown blanket. She runs her hand over it for a moment, then unfolds it quickly, gesturing to Holland and me to stand up. I feel a little less terrible, and I can do it on my own.

After being unfolded, the blanket is about ten feet long and five feet wide. The fabric is not very thick, but it is warm. On closer examination, the logo 'Capitol Center for Chronic Illness' is stamped multiple times across the surface. Normally, I would be annoyed at being used as advertising. But once we've wrapped ourselves in it, I find it hard to care.

"Thanks!" Holland pipes, surprising me. But he's got the right idea.

"Yeah, thank you!" I echo, forcing a smile. "The blanket is really great!"

"Thanks so much," Lissom emotes.

Our words hang in the cool air long after leaving our mouths. I wonder what has happened to us. I wonder if it is safe to go to sleep, now that dying of hypothermia is less likely. I wonder what is going on with Lissom…

The sleep question is answered quickly, as Holland curls up and promptly passes out. Lissom gives me an appraising look.

"What?" I ask, too tired to be truly snappish.

"This changes absolutely nothing," she says, with total sincerity. "I don't like you."

"Well, glad you've gotten that out of the way," I sigh. "Why help us, then?"

"I don't like to see people hurting. Even people I don't like. Especially not… this way."

"So nothing's really changed," I say quietly.

"No. You're still a jerk."

"And you're still completely self motivated."

"I'm glad we understand each other," she mutters. "It's safe to go to sleep. I bet the Careers are still at the gas station."

"No, it's not. You'd kill either of us if you thought it would keep you alive a second longer."

She doesn't answer.

I don't let my eyes close. Sleep comes anyway.

**-x**

**I have had a difficult two weeks, but apologies are still due for lateness. Then again, this is an awfully long chapter, so I can only hope it will stand as a tangible 'Forgive me?' card, no Hallmark required.**

**A few more chapters before we get a death, people.**

**EDIT: My good friend Penelope Wendy Bing has created a glorious page for this fanfic on TV Tropes at http :/ /tvtropes. org/pmwiki/pmwiki. php/Main/TheCapitolSeries. Do go check it out! :D**

_This update's question_: Would you like to see a chapter, at some point, about what's going on in the aftermath of Xenia's death?


	45. Avian

**Avian**

**Dylan (D4)**

Diele and I have been quiet, lately. There's not really another option. We're both hurt, physically and mentally. We're both tired beyond belief. Though there's no real way to judge, I think we both really lost something when Chalice died. Not just a deranged ally. She was just… the last real tie to innocence either of us had. And with her corruption, we lost that vital figment of our alliance.

Now we're just waiting for something to happen. Something that will test us, our alliance, our friendship.

I hope it's not soon. I'm awfully tired, and my chest aches with every breath. Since we aren't moving much, and it's not all that cold in the gas station, Diele has tried to bandage my ribcage. She's not very good at it, but I'm not about to undermine what little satisfaction she's gained from helping me. The dressing, though minimal, is probably helping. At least, from what little I know of wound care. Not much.

Being still for so long leaves far too much time to think. Diele looks generally unhealthy, in the fetal position on her own cot. She watches the snow melt outside, without really seeing it. I watch her chest rise and fall. Every so often, she will turn towards me and open her mouth as if to talk. Occasionally, she will ask me to hand her the potatoes, or a cup of water. Most often, though, she will bite her lip without saying anything and turn back to the window.

The pragmatist in me says that we ought to start moving soon. The Gamemakers will not stand for two such assumed strong competitors as us remaining inactive for long. But I tell myself that I am worried about Diele. It's easier to accept. Really, I worry more about myself. Some of what Chalice said, as well.

Diele turns to me, her dark hair rustling against the rough material of the cot.

"We ought to be moving soon," she says reluctantly, her voice vaguely hoarse.

"I agree," I reply, sitting up. "I'll fill up our cups and canteens. Can you get…" I trail off.

"Don't worry, I can get most of what… Chalice… was carrying. If you can get the food?"

"Sure."

I attempt a smile, and she grimaces in response.

"You look awful," she sighs, tilting her head to look at me. "Have you been having trouble sleeping?"

Years with Scilla have, luckily, helped me to understand that it is generally a bad idea to comment on a girl's appearance. Especially if the intended remark is anything short of a compliment. Diele looks awful, though. The circles beneath her eyes are a deep, bruise-purple. Her face has taken on a sallow cast, and seems thinner. Her hair and eyes are dull. I can't imagine I look better.

"Absolutely," I say ruefully. "Who wouldn't? With those bugs just a few yards away."

I shudder quietly.

"Bugs? Really?" Diele asks. "I would have pegged you as more of a sharks kind of guy."

"Sharks?" I query, shrugging. "Nah, they don't really bother me."

"Drowning?" she presses.

"A bit," I admit. "But it's bred into you in Four. It's birds that get to me."

She laughs halfheartedly.

"I'm surprised. But then again, I guess I'm the same. The feet really get to me. All… scaly. It doesn't really fit with the rest of them, y'know? And my mom's always bringing the stuffed ones home. She studies them, for the university. Really terrifying. Dolly won't be in the same room with one."

"A seagull bit me when I was a pre-grade," I sigh. "Vicious beasts. And anhingas are awfully troublesome. They steal shrimp, get their little necks stuck in the netting and rip the whole thing to pieces to get out."

"Well, _your_ reasoning actually makes sense," she says. I get the sense that she's making an effort to keep the conversation going. We've almost gotten all of the supplies in one place, and it's beginning to bother me how much bigger her load is than mine.

There's an uncomfortable noise in the distance that raises both of our heads. It's far away, that's for certain. Sort of a harsh, grating cry. It reminds me of the rust covered grating of the elevator in the Justice Building, though impossibly more foreboding.

"What would you say that was?" I ask Diele after we go a second without hearing it again.

"Sounds almost like… the scratch at the end of a record. Probably machinery. I haven't got a clue."

Her eyes are clearly somewhere else, and the quiet surrounding the noise is awful.

"Clubs out?" I suggest. She nods in reply, and I hand her one. "We should get going. We're sitting ducks in here, what with the window opened and the doors as easy to bypass as they are."

We meet eyes, and, wordlessly, exit the gas station. The doors pop shut behind us with a _hiss_ and a muted thud.

After so long indoors, the road is almost agoraphobic. I feel unprotected, and spend an unnecessary amount of time checking the surroundings. Same layer of vegetation, same median, same four lanes. Diele looks just as uneasy as I feel.

From the direction we are walking, I hear the noise again. Diele stiffens. A responding cry, which feels even closer, comes from behind us.

We're walking down a slight incline, so I don't see anything at first. Diele and I slowly begin to walk again, shoulder to shoulder, and I can sense the nervous energy that surrounds us. The cry sounds again, and I have to reign in my impulse to run. Diele stops dead in her tracks, and I follow suit.

"It's… almost familiar…" she mutters. "I swear, I've heard it on a record before."

"Were you freaked out then?" I ask, my tone dropping to a whisper.

"Definitely," she replies, her brow furrowing in thought. "It's not a machine… I think… I think it's a-" She stops talking abruptly as the first one thunders into view.

I haven't got a clue what it is, at first. The thing is on two legs, like a duck. But it runs so differently. With purpose. Its legs are directly underneath the massive body. From such a distance, I can't gauge the creature's height, but I would estimate it to be taller than Diele or me. Maybe eight feet. The thing isn't running at us quite head-on, so I can make out the beak, which is massive. It curves out like the beak of an osprey, but it seems an unlikely feature in that it is far larger than the head itself.

The bird is huge. Tall, heavy, streamlined, predatory. Its beak is build for killing, its claws designed for the tearing of flesh.

Diele has her club at the ready before I do.

"That's it," she whispers, sounding absolutely terrified. "Titanis. Oh God, Dylan, we're going to die."

"What?" I hiss back. "You've seen this before?"

"My mom's a professor of prehistoric ornithology! Of course I have! …well, only some bones. But Dylan, that thing eats horses! Horses!" she snaps.

It's strange, but despite the rush of terror and adrenaline, I feel better than I have in days. Much more myself. I get the impression that Diele is surprised at her own reaction, as well.

"Do we fight?" I ask, as the first bird draws nearer and begins to make its grating cry again. Another one joins it on the horizon, and I hear at least one voice answer it from behind us.

"What else?" Diele replies grimly. "Aim for the eyes and the necks. Everything else is either practically armored or cushioned with enough feathers to absorb the blow."

"Not going to ask why you know that," I inform her as we press back to back.

"I have a really weird family," she sighs, and clubs the first bird on the beak. It's a good hit, as I look behind me to see. Little hairline fissures branch out on the hard black enamel. The bird screams at her, its breath tinged coppery with blood. Diele doesn't hesitate to swing her club at its eye, and again to the base of its skull.

I turn away, facing my own opponant. It's odd how reptilian they are. Their faces are raw and scaly, and one could almost imagine their crushing beaks on the face of a tree-iguana. I wouldn't call them entirely avian, definitely, but the way they walk is vaguely heron-like, and their beaks have an odd sort of point to the end of them. Not just for cracking skulls, but for spearing them, as well.

Once the bird is practically on top of me, I swing at its neck. Unlike Diele, I seem to have missed the bone entirely. It gouges at my leg with the claws on its feet, and I can't entirely avoid them, pressed up against Diele's back as I am.

Biting my lip, I raise my club again and aim for the back of the neck instead of the front. I must have misjudged the necessary force, because I deal only a glancing blow. The bird is a little over a foot taller than me, more including the crest of a few feathers on its head. I don't let myself get distracted, and I deal a few more quick blows to the skull. By the time it has stopped moving, there is another, slightly smaller specimen racing towards me in full view. Blood runs down my leg from the deep scratches inflicted by the first bird.

"How're you holding up?" I mutter to Diele, preparing to swing at the second birds beady black eye.

"One got my _arm_," she grunts, punctuating the last word with a blow to her attacker's head. "I've gotten two so far."

My own bird jabs at my face with its beak, and I take the wound in my shoulder, dodging too slowly to avoid it completely. The sort of point at the end of the beak stops when it hits my shoulder blade. My rib aches awfully with the motion of twisting away. I try to correct my footing, finally getting a good angle and bashing the bird in the eye.

"Why are there so many?" I hiss, my wounds making me snappish.

"I think these must be pack animals!" she mutters, just as harshly. "My mom's never been able to tell, though."

She strikes wildly and likely breaks the bird she is fighting's leg.

"I could tell you about their egg laying habits, but I doubt that would help," she adds sourly.

"How many to a pack?" I ask, muttering an oath as two birds descend on me at once.

"Damned if I know," she growls. "I'll be so mad at my mom if she was involved with these…"

"That makes two of us."

The two birds are not skilled at attacking simultaneously, luckily for me. The faster and taller of the two pushes in front, stabbing at me with its beak and raking my knee with its talons. The bird behind it smells my blood, I think, and attacks the first bird viciously.

I wonder if they haven't been fed recently. It seems unlikely that such birds would go to all the trouble of taking on such large creatures as Diele and I if not for an extreme hunger. The birds at the dock never come near us except for the purpose of food…

In the distraction of the two birds fighting, I manage to at the very least stun the two of them, and I get to thinking. Cormorants, seagulls, anhingas, herons… I'm not exactly fond of any of them. Even looking at the giants fallen before me, I can barely repress a shudder. But all the birds I don't like… I don't like because they are hungry and steal shrimp from under my nose. I check the horizon, and no more birds are immediately forthcoming.

As quickly as I can, I rip the small pack of food from my shoulder. Diele and I have been reluctant to eat the rest of the food from the paper bags, save the potatoes. Though the meat has been in one of the large refrigerators in the gas station, it is still old and unpalatable when cold.

Acting on a hunch, as another bird runs toward me, I produce a ground meat sandwich and toss it towards the predator. The bird slows down almost immediately, and pokes at the sandwich with a talon, tilting its head inquisitively. Then, with its enormous beak, it tosses the whole thing in the air and catches it deftly in its mouth.

Slowly, it turns back towards me, angling its oversized head and clearly asking for more.

I toss it another.

The bird that Diele is fighting stops abruptly, looking at the sandwich and giving her the chance to fell it with a bone-shattering bow to the eye.

"What are you doing?" she asks quietly, as the first bird picks eagerly at the sandwich.

"Saving our lives," I inform her. "I'll toss a few more. We should keep a few in case we run into any more-" I trail off.

"Titanis walleri," she explains. "Terror birds."

I shudder quietly. It feels good to finally do it.

"I know, right?" she says, shivering as well. "I'll never look at a bird the same way again… oh, Dylan, I really, _really_ hate birds."

She takes a sandwich herself, holding it at the ready as we begin to inch away from the terror birds. The one left eating doesn't even look up. Diele tosses her burger back a good hundred feet, and another terror bird slows down to begin eating that one. We're both still tense, having been expecting anything but a peaceful retreat on our part.

"We should try to get in a tree," Diele suggests in a whisper. "As long as we're high up. I don't think they're built to climb."

We begin to edge towards the line of forestry to our right. I throw another sandwich in the general direction of the birds, lacking Diele's accuracy with anything but a spear. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off, and my chest aches with renewed vigor, a knife lodged in my rib that twists whenever I breathe.

Diele holds out her hands and helps me up the largest tree we find, offering a boost as I cannot fully utilize my upper body strength. The next branch is easier, and I stop to help pull her up to the first. She winces as she tries to support herself with her bandaged leg. We climb about twelve feet up before the branches are too thin to support us.

"Can I join you?" she asks. My branch is much wider than hers, and seems generally healthier. I shake it experimentally.

"I don't know…" I trail off. "How much would you say you weighed?"

She looks mildly surprised, and I suddenly remember having been punched for asking someone that before. Luckily, she only purses her lips and smiles.

"One sixty, give or take," she laughs. "Am I good to climb up?"

"Yeah," I say, relieved. "Just let me take the spot closest to the trunk, and try not to go too far down the branch."

Slowly, she inches her way up, wincing as she swings her injured leg over the branch. In a matter of minutes, we've gone from being hunted by terror birds, to killing them, to feeding them, to hiding in a tree. I'm surprised we don't have whiplash.

The branches above us are thin and relatively leafless. We can see the sky.

"So, how are we in terms of food?" Diele finally asks, pressing her knees to her chest. "I mean, other than our bird bait."

I check our bag of supplies. "We've got plenty for the next week or so, assuming that we don't eat much."

"Water?" she asks.

"It ought to be in your pack, but I filled up all the cups."

"So… we're doing pretty well, is what you're saying."

"Yeah, I think we are."

"That's good news," she sighs, smiling. "We could deal with some more of it, though."

A lone terror bird pokes its oversized beak into the strip of forest. I toss it a piece of sandwich. After picking out the meat and poking a few holes in the bread, it walks slowly out of the trees, its scaly legs moving with their backwards joints.

We watch it go.

"They remind me of herons," I remark. "I don't really like herons."

"They aren't closely related," she tells me. "They died out long before herons existed."

I've never really been much for the intellectual part of science, so I don't ask further questions.

"You know," she continues anyway, "I never got a good look at their hands. Mom would have wanted me to check."

"No hands, just wings. That's all I saw, at any rate."

"Maybe the claws retract, then?"

Diele looks interested by the idea. I don't really want to hear any more about the terror birds' mechanisms of death. Foot claws and sharp beaks seem generous as it is.

"What do you want to do, assuming you go home?" I ask, hoping to ward off a discussion of prehistoric ornithology.

"Move out, take Dolly with me," she sighs. "From there, I can make it up as I go along. You?"

"Probably I'd just go back to work," I say, shrugging. "I can't live without something to do. I'd probably evaporate from boredom, living alone in a big house. Maybe I'd buy my parents a bigger house, depending on my pension."

"Neither of us have really thought this out," she comments, with a smile.

"And yet, we are very much alive. I'd say living in the moment is to our advantage."

The same terror bird from before pokes back into the foliage. It is easily identifiable by the mustard smeared on its beak. Before I have a chance, Diele tosses it the rest of the sandwich from before. It swallows the offering whole, turning its beady eyes towards us to plead for more.

"They don't see us as prey animals," she sighs. "They're just hungry. Probably confused. Out of place. They should have all been gone millions of years ago…"

"How do we get away from them?" I press.

"If the Gamemakers don't remove them somehow… we'll have to try walking away, through the trees, I suppose. They don't seem comfortable with the trees."

As if to prove her point, the terror bird edges out of the forest, snapping with its oversized beak at a leafy branch that brushes its neck.

"We may have to kill more of them," she adds, though the wistful look she gives the retreating bird tells me that she would really prefer not to. "I'm not fond of birds, but… these are really beautiful.

I don't see it, but I nod as if I do. Diele looks pleased.

"Then let's get going. Sooner rather than later," I suggest.

Going down the tree is no easier than climbing up was. Diele lowers herself down slowly, having the use of her upper body, landing with a muted thud on her good leg. She freezes momentarily, and I do as well, expecting a storm of hungry terror birds to burst through the trees to eat her alive. Nothing happens, though. Even the vague birdcalls from the distance have faded out.

She helps me out of the tree, and we stand for a moment, catching our breath. We break through the curtain of leaves simultaneously, and the afternoon sun is blinding. No birds charge at us. The vast expanse of roadway is empty, even of the enormous bodies.

Her with her awkward, slightly jumpy gait, and me stopping to contain the occasional twinge in my ribcage, we continue wordlessly down the highway as if nothing at all happened to disturb us in the first place.

**-x**

**Oops, this chapter took a long time to write. And it suffers from a lack of Lectic and Demetra, methinks. More on the state of Lucian and my two… most-definitely-not-favorites… in the next chapter. Death coming up soon. Be warned.**

_This update's question_: Pokemon Black/White… do you have it?


	46. Flock

**Flock**

"Rise and shine, Lectic!" Demetra says brightly, shaking me awake.

"You are not a very nice person," I groan, trying unsuccessfully to wrench my shoulder from her vise-gripe.

"It's been said," she replies. "Come on, squirrel-face, I'm hungry."

My reply comes out as unintelligible muttering, and she rolls her eyes, but releases my arm. "Well, at least you're awake," she sighs. "You're spectacularly uninteresting when you're sleeping. I demand to be entertained."

"What's on the schedule this morning?" I ask, blinking as the morning light streams through the windows, directly into my eyes.

"Well, I'm thinking food, showers all around, packing, cleaning up the car a bit, and maybe torching some branches or something in the hopes of attracting a few competitors with the resulting fire."

"Yay."

"I know, right? We should get moving soon."

"How are you so happy?" I mutter.

"The thought of conflagration tends to get me into a good mood. C'mon, smart one, get up."

I have the feeling that Demetra has been cooped up for too long. We haven't left the rest area for days, and it seems to be driving her to even greater depths of insanity. I ate too many granola bars last night, though, and the large amount of fiber seems to have messed up my digestive tract. I feel almost too miserable to humor her.

"You're looking pathetic," she observes. "More so than usual. Are you okay?"

When I look up, she appears genuinely concerned. It surprises me.

"Uh… I'm fine. Just still having trouble with dinner."

"Go take a shower. Maybe you ought to skip breakfast," she suggests, slapping me on the back. "C'mon, you've got to be in tip-top shape if we get attacked, and I don't think we'll have these amenities for long."

She laughs at my attempt at a smile, and I trudge away. It's annoying to admit, but I _do _feel better after showering. My head has cleared up, and I feel ready for some food. Demetra has other ideas, naturally.

Damp from her own shower, she walks over and hands me a trash bag, no doubt alleviated from one of the cans nearby.

"Rest's over, let's start packing. I'm more than ready to move on."

"Can't we wait a little longer? It's just nine, we haven't been here very long, and it's a nice enough pla-"

"Shut up, Lectic," she says cheerfully, cutting me off. "We'll have plenty of time to rest once we're dead."

"Aren't you the optimistic one," I grumble. Something is going on. I'm not usually this… ugh. Cynical, I guess. Something is making me nervous, but I can't figure out what, and it's driving me crazy.

"Um, Demetra, have you… noticed anything?" I ask as we wrestle a depleted water jug from the trunk. It's one of the big ones, and even together, we have some trouble with it.

"Nope," she replies irritably. "I've lost muscle mass since this stupid arena. Goddamn. What, have you gotten a haircut or something?"

I roll my eyes. Though I haven't noticed anything different about her, my optical muscles have been getting quite the workout lately.

"Nothing, really," I sigh. "I'm just nervous. Shouldn't have said anything."

We drop the water jug by the garbage cans, and go back to the car to rearrange the rest of the supplies.

"I suppose you're paying attention, for once. That's a good thing," she suggests, stopping to sit next to the car. "Let's finish up what we can from that water container thing before we go. We can pour the rest down the shower drain."

I sit next to her, in the shade of our large vehicle. Moving all that water was difficult, but we need space in the trunk for what we've lifted from the colorful machines. Besides, we've filled the other vessels in the bathrooms, no small task. Supplies are looking good, considering the late stage in the games.

Also surprising thus far have been the mutts. Or lack thereof. While the traffic that occurred the first few mornings elicited an interesting – and by interesting, I mean linguistically colorful – reaction from Demetra, it was as if the Gamemakers decided that wasn't working the way they wanted it to and stopped. There was the roadkill that necessitated a changed tire. Then there were the bugs at the gas station, which were likely meant to prey upon those with a specific fear of them. And then, the enormous vulture, which was by far the most actually dangerous out of all we've encountered. All fit together, though. Bugs in the bathroom, cars on the road, dead animals in the path of cars, giant birds in the sky. They make sense.

It remains to be seen whether or not we will encounter anything else, but I wrack my brain for other obvious mutts. There are bugs in most dirty bathrooms, and they made them bigger. There are cars on most roads, and they added more of them. There's almost always an unfortunate animal or two on the streets, and they made them more dangerous. There are vultures over most any large road, and I only wish I knew what that thing was that so looked like one. What's next? Venomous tumbleweed? Car accidents?

One thing, for certain, is that the Gamemakers have been off their game. Something must be distracting them. There are so many things that could have gone wrong at this rest stop that didn't. Wish I could see into their heads…

"C'mon, let's finish loading up the car," Demetra says, standing up. I follow suit.

"What else?" I ask.

"Oh, there's not much more to do. You arrange the machine food, and I'll check the bathrooms again," she says confidently, but then hesitates. "Mm… stick my flamethrower in the front seat, okay? I think I'm going to try to do something with my hair while we still have running water."

She pulls the strap over her head and hands it to me.

"Don't even think about using it," she warns. "If you set yourself on fire, I'm not helping you."

I take it gingerly. "Can I start up the car?"

"If you want to drive first, that's fine by me. I didn't get much sleep last night."

She grins, and I flash a reluctant thumbs up.

"Come _on_, Lectic! We're finally getting out of here!" she crows. "Be happy!"

Two of those factors would explain her strangely elated mood. For one, sleep deprivation, I've noticed, makes Demetra giddy. And as for the rest stop, it does seem awfully small compared to the open road, the Capitol, or likely, District Two. While the only things I'm used to that are much bigger are the factories, I can understand why she's felt cooped up.

The door closes behind her, making an echo that I've never quite gotten used to, in the high-ceilinged room. For my part, I put her flamethrower carefully in the passenger seat, shut the door, and begin to stack the packages of food from the machine in something resembling order.

I am tapped me on the shoulder, and I feel a shudder build in my chest. She's devious, Demetra, closing the door in such a way that I'd hear it. And she's startled me good. It doesn't help that I've been tense all morning.

"You win, Demetra," I say, turning around reluctantly. "You got me."

But it's not Demetra.

It's much bigger, for one.

And there'd be no saving me if she heard me say this, but a hell of a lot scarier.

"Demetra?" I say quietly. "Demetra, where are you?"

I'm looking at a bird. It's about eight feet tall, at a guess. It has the stance of a predator, two legs, eyes forward. Reminds me vaguely of a heron with the cumbersomely large head of an eagle.

There's something that looks like mustard on its beak.

Slowly, carefully, I move to close the trunk. The crest on its head rises warningly. To fully close the trunk, I'll have to make some amount of noise.

Tensing, I lower the trunk's door slowly, slowly, slowly, until it's almost closed. Then I slam it and bolt for the building. The bird is momentarily surprised, but the moment passes and it races after me. So much faster. I'm not going to make it to the bathrooms.

"Demetra!" I yell, throwing myself behind a concrete bench. "Demetra, I could really use some help!"

She's not there immediately, which really shouldn't surprise me. In fact, I'm almost glad she won't see me die here, cowering under a bench as I am. The bird is stymied briefly, poking at the bench with an enormous claw.

"Demetra!" I call again, a touch more franticly.

This time, I am answered, but the bird catches on before she does, ramming a clawed foot beneath the bench, tearing at the arm I am using to cover my head. The pain shocks me into action, and I roll out from under the bench and sprint for the garbage can just as Demetra opens the bathroom door.

"The hell's going on?" she says, annoyed. "Can't I leave you alone for five minutes?"

I don't have the energy to reply, and I dive behind the trashcan, trying to hold the wound in my arm shut.

"Oh, you're bleeding," she observes. "Did you trip again? Because I'm really in the middle of something, and you said yourself that you were good at first aid…"

The bird thunders up to the garbage can, and her eyes widen. How did I manage to catch her at such a bad moment? She's been happy all day!

"Wow, you've certainly gotten yourself into trouble, Lectic," she sighs. "Really, we haven't seen a single mutt since we've been at the rest stop, and you go and get the only one in the entire arena after your blood? That takes skill."

Catching my breath as the bird tries to figure out the garbage can, I yell back, "If it kills me, it'll go for you next!"

"Shit, you're right," she sighs, reaching for something behind her back. She stiffens. "Oh shit. Oh shit."

"Less cursing, more saving!" I yell franticly, dodging out from behind the trash can and heading back for the bench.

"Lectic, you idiot! I don't have my flamethrower!"

I start cursing, too. "That's your fault!"

"How the hell is that my fault?" Demetra cries, bolting for the car. "What did you do to get it so freaking angry?"

"I closed the trunk!" I counter, ducking another swipe of the bird's claws.

She's about to say something, but decides against it, looking furious. The bird skewers my hand with the tip of its beak, and I let out a cry.

"Damn you, Lectic," Demetra groans, sprinting towards me. "You're going to get yourself killed!"

"Not intentionally!"

"Shut up, Lectic!"

I notice that she is still weaponless. Her approach distracts the bird, but it catches me by the leg with a claw as I try to roll away. She quickly analyses the situation, her face hardening as the bird aims again for my bloody hand with its crushing beak.

She directs a sweeping kick at its scaly legs, which at the very least unbalances and distracts it. She has its full attention, now, and I scramble upright and limp towards the car. My leg is slick with blood, but I'm unsure as to whether the wound on my arm is more important, and I end up staunching neither.

From my vantage point by the car, I can see Demetra expertly feint left, evade a slash by the bird's talons, and aim a kick at the base of its neck. She seems to be easily holding her own, so I look down at my wounds in an attempt to gauge their severity.

My hand is bleeding the most profusely, but I am grateful that it is my left. With my right, I rip the left sleeve off of my thin white t-shirt and attempt a sort of tourniquet, though this situation is far beyond my loosely defined 'expertise'. I end up with a bit of slack, and I compensate by including my thumb for stability.

Beneath my torn pant leg, the gouge the bird inflicted while holding me back is still bleeding sluggishly. My lower right arm, which I've been trying to ignore in the effort to bandage my left hand, is worse off. I use a twig from the pavement to tighten another piece of my shirt into a functional bandage, though I can't seem to remember whether a tourniquet is the right thing to use. I'm frustrated, confused, and in pain. What's going on?

_These mutts don't fit._

The thought strikes me out of the blue. They _don't_. Something going on out there must have changed. The plan has changed. Demetra and I aren't getting preferential treatment, for one. But the orderly manner of the mutts has changed. They're just throwing stuff at us. Nothing strategic about it. No more logic. No more care taken to ensure that the piece as a whole makes sense. Just mutts, for the purpose of slaughter.

A rational Gamemaker is a much easier opponant than an irrational one. Demetra and I are going to have to be careful.

"If you're done cowering, d'you think you could _get me my fucking flamethrower_?" Demetra shrieks.

"Oh! Sorry!" I say quickly, pulling myself to my feet. "I'll just… go do that… now."

I scramble for the car door, wrench it open with my good hand, and grab the flamethrower, nudging the door shut with my shoulder.

"Coming!" I yell.

"A little-" she snaps, and I hear the sound of a fist striking bone "- slower, why don't you?"

Hobbling as I am, by the time I reach her, she's got the bird on the ground, and snaps its neck with one of her boots. She's breathing heavily, and her face is flushed. She doesn't look happy.

"I can't leave you alone for five minutes!" she growls, spitting out blood from a torn lip, and sneezing twice. "Five freaking minutes! And you go and get yourself attacked by a freaking bird! _Only you_, Lectic!"

"You're bleeding," I say, and she lets out a huff of indignation, sniffling unhappily, her chin covered in blood.

"Not _much_, it didn't get me."

"Your lip is practically torn open."

"I said not _much_," she complains, though her mouth is filled with blood, her eyes are slightly swollen, and her 'ch's are corrupted with 'f's as her bottom lip refuses to curl and make the sound quite right.

"This would be my definition of 'much'," I sigh, as she reluctantly kneels to let me check it out, sneezing again. "We don't have any bandages, but if you could rip the right sleeve off my shirt…"

She blanches, and I trail off. "What? I've washed it!"

"We've got sponsors, Lectic," she says, wiping more blood off of her chin. "I was too brilliant back there for them to ignore us."

"Haven't yet heard much from them, have we," I say, annoyed. Because this is really not my day, the silver parachute falls behind me seconds after the sentence leaves my mouth. "Don't say it," I groan.

Demetra's mangled lip twists into a grin.

"Have you ever known me to hold back on something funny for your sake?" she laughs. "The Gamemakers hate your guts, just face it. It's me they'd be lost without."

"You may be right," I mutter, grabbing the package and yanking out the roll of sterilized bandages I know full well it contains and some white medical tape, as well as tiny tube of antibiotic.

I gingerly try to put her lip together, but the tear is pretty straightforward.

"It was the beak that did it," she says proudly, forcing me to abandon the task as she talks. "I'm too fast for the claws."

"Yes, Demetra, you are," I grumble. "Now please just let me get this straight, okay?"

She sticks her tongue out at me, the effect of which is rather gruesome, but allows me to apply the antibiotic and tape the bandage in place. I remove my own crude dressings, and reapply fresh ones and the last of the antibiotic, doing my best to clean myself up.

"I could have done it better myself," Demetra complains, her left hand at my attempt at a bandage, her right cradling her flamethrower to her chest like a child's beloved doll. "It's crooked. I could have done it in the mirror."

"Yes, Demetra," I sigh, my default reaction. "Now, are you ready to go?"

We end up scouring the bathrooms again, and grabbing a large amount of the toilet tissue for future use in starting fires and mopping up blood. I'm still feeling uncomfortable, but I attribute it to the large, dead bird outside. Afterwards, we meet in the sheltered area between the rooms.

"I think we're good to go," she says finally. "But my nose really itches. And it's already midday."

"That it is," I agree, not mentioning the large bandage on her lip that makes whatever is making her sneeze seem unimportant in comparison. "Do we stay another night and leave in the morning?"

"No," she decides. "Let's go before they send more birds."

We turn towards the arched exit, and stop short.

"Too late for that, Demetra," I say softly, edging back as one of the twenty or so birds makes a curious screech.

She has her flamethrower up and pointed at them before I have time to blink.

They are immediately wary. The crests of a few of the taller ones perk up immediately, and they step back with unease, making more of the uncertain noises and ruffling their feathers nervously.

One begins to stalk forward, and Demetra pulls the trigger without hesitation. The smell of scorched feathers fills the air, and I look away. The other birds bump into each other awkwardly in the scramble to back away.

"Now what do we do?" I ask quietly.

"The trees," she replies with certainty. "They'll stay out of range for now, but they're carnivores. And we don't know how many are out there. We need them in one place. I hope I have enough fuel."

"How does climbing trees help us with any of that?"

"Shut up, Lectic. You're staying on the ground. Grab a big stick if you can find one."

I follow her obediently as she shoots an arc of flames, driving the birds farther back until we are out from under the cover of the roof. Then she checks their proximity and hops onto one of the concrete benches that is pressed against the faded cinderblock wall. From our vantage point, we can see that there are at least thirty to the main group, and about five stragglers, though the birds at the fringes of the group are definitely among the biggest. All of them have crests.

"Maybe we won't need to climb," she comments, looking pensive, lowering her flamethrower.

Slowly, carefully, avoiding the smoldering corpse, the birds close in, the five loners circling around the main group with wary yellow eyes. Demetra is still standing on the bench, and I am not, which worries me. Quite a few are within easy range of her flamethrower, which adds to my uncertainty.

"Aren't you going to torch them?" I hiss, never taking my eyes off the large, uncrested bird that is, in turn, staring raptly at me.

"Not… yet…" she whispers, with just enough gleefulness to reassure me. Demetra doesn't pass up an opportunity for a lot of fire, and I am certain this will not be the exception.

I'm right.

The closest bird is less than twenty feet away when she squeezes the trigger and sweeps the flock with a side-to-side motion. This time, I have read her correctly, and close my eyes before the carnage starts. It's remarkable how awful it is, even without vision. Birds scream, plumage burns, and Demetra laughs. I can feel the heat on my face, even after it stops.

"Didn't quite get them all. Stick with me. We're heading for the trees now," she says sharply, and I open my eyes to the stinging smoke.

Demetra jumps off of the bench, and I follow her dash to the trees. There's a large oak with fanning branches that begin about twelve feet up.

"I'm not really fond of trees," she mutters. "Gimme your screwdriver. And damn it, find yourself a stick!"

I toss the weapon to her, checking over my shoulder for the birds. I nearly fall over at the sight. The five loner birds are picking through the charred remains. None of them are more than scorched, and they look up to meet my eyes in a way that forces my own gaze downward. We've managed to kill the overly aggressive birds. These are the smart ones. I find a stick about two feet long and an inch in diameter, and break the twigs off of it with my good hand. My right arm seems to have begun to bleed again with the exertion.

"Good," Demetra comments upon seeing my crude weapon. She's somehow gotten herself nearly up to the first branch, though it is obvious she's never even attempted to climb a tree before.

"Need help?" I ask carefully.

"Hell no," she snaps. "I can do this. Just shut up and look tasty."

"_What_?"

She smirks at me, though some of the effect is lost with the bandage covering most of her mouth. With a stretch that even looks painful, she manages to pull herself up to a sitting position, flamethrower strapped to her chest.

"You heard me, genius. You're the bait."

As if on cue, one of the birds makes a harsh cry, and begins to walk towards me. The weapon I picked up seconds before no longer feels as formidable.

Demetra shimmies down the branch, looking pained.

"I hate trees!" she growls.

Another bird has joined the first, and together, they walk deliberately towards the base of the tree where I stand. I'm not certain how to hold the stick, and I end up with it in my right hand.

"Use both! Both hands!" Demetra hisses with agitation. "You need more force or it'll just bounce off!"

"I don't _have_ two functional hands!"

Our argument is cut off as I club the first bird in the chest as it gets too close for comfort. It looks mildly annoyed, but, as Demetra mutters "duck!" and I throw myself to the left, it goes up in flames. She scorches the bandages on my leg.

"How is this helpful?" I groan, dragging myself to my feet.

The second is wary, but it is drawn closer, I believe, by the blood that is beginning to seep through one of my bandages. Demetra dispatches it before it can get too close, but sneezes and nearly loses her balance.

"Move out a little farther from the tree!" she urges. "The other three can't see you right now."

"I know, I was enjoying it," I snap, stepping gingerly over the first bird.

The third and fourth rush forward at the same time shortly after I begin waving my bleeding hand around. Demetra crawls further along the branch, and takes them out almost simultaneously. The fifth stays at a healthy distance, though, and none of our coaxing elicits any reaction.

"Okay, maybe you should come down," I suggest to Demetra.

"No," she says shortly.

"Why not?" I protest. "There's only one left, there's no way he can surround us, you'll be able to take him out just fine!"

"I said no!" she growls.

"Oh," I say, comprehension dawning on me. "You're stuck up there, aren't you?"

"I am not!"

"Then you're scared of falling?"

"Shut up!"

The bird must have sensed our distraction, because it suddenly pelts forward. The branch Demetra is on makes a groaning noise. She seems to have moved out too far.

"Demetra, try to crawl back!" I call, holding my weapon out nervously as the bird approaches.

"I can't," she whispers. "I'm not good at this!"

"Well if you don't, you're going to fall!"

And on top of me, too. The branch is directly overhead, and I sidle out of the way, keeping an eye on the bird. She shifts her weight, creating another dangerous-sounding _crack_.

"Just torch the bird! I'll help you down!"

"I can't move!" She sounds genuinely scared.

It begins to slow as it passes the first charred bird, but continues to stalk me, ever-wary of the branch in my hands.

When it is only ten feet away, I start to worry in earnest. Demetra is shifting in the tree, but I am certain that she is not going to have her flamethrower at the ready in time. Dispatching this, the most intelligent of that entire flock, is going to fall to me.

Five feet away. It doesn't even recoil as I swing the branch menacingly, just gazes hungrily at my still-bleeding hand. Four feet. Demetra is doing something, but the bird doesn't even look up. Three feet, and it draws its enormous head back to strike.

The branch breaks, and Demetra falls directly onto its back, shrieking. It seems at least momentarily stunned, and with a burst of adrenaline, I club its head as Demetra tries unsuccessfully to right herself. As soon as she gains her feet, she steps on its neck with venom, and there might as well be a cannon blast for all that particular bird will be standing up again.

"Shit!" she groans. "That always happens when I climb trees!"

"You take out crazy bird-mutts by falling? District Two must be fun," I say.

The annoyed look she shoots me doesn't need a translation.

"Are you okay?" I sigh, relenting.

She doesn't reply, just irritably pulls herself to her feet and stalks to the car, pulls open the passenger door, and slams with a typical dose of vitriol.

I join her in the car, and, not even looking back, start the engine and wordlessly drive away. From proximity, Demetra looks sulky, but intact. Of course. She's practically indestructible. But what have I learned about her today? Afraid of heights. Possibly allergic to feathers. Very much human.

It's a comforting thought. Though we are torn up, bandaged, bleeding, and slightly bruised in the ego, we continue on towards the afternoon horizon. Considering the circumstances, I'd say we're better off than most.

**-x**

**Yes, I said there would be Lucian. But he didn't fit this chapter, and there's always next one, right?**

**Lectic and Demetra are amazing. But this chapter was difficult to get started on, because I made the mistake of writing ahead of myself, and, well… sigh. Bad excuse. Anyway, two of my friends have joined effeffdawtnet, so here's a quick shout out to Jasmine Sparks and Samino Chene!**

**As always, I am eternally indebted to anyone reading this. And for those of you who would like to have whatever mental images you possess of the final eight irrevocably ruined, here's the url to a picture I've made on DA. http :/ claratrixlechatham. deviantart. com/#/ d3dartm**

_This update's question:_ Would you call yourself a speed reader?


	47. Empty

**Lucian (D2)**

I know that I am approaching someone. A few days back, I came upon a gas station, conveniently as the fuel in my steamroller was about to run out. A window was broken, which was distracting, but indicative of recent human presence.

The station's indoors portion was damp, and the floor had a sheen of water and an acrid smell of mould. I concluded that there had been more than one group of people, at different times. Likely, the first of which had drained the many empty canisters of water. I drank some from the sink, and filled my empty paper cups, and left.

The neon sign had a crack to one corner that I was eager to ignore.

While I had not yet entertained much thought of morality, I began to consider my actions in the event of an encounter with another person.

My gun sits beside me, now, on the seat of the vehicle. I am not familiar with its workings, and I am more than reluctant to fiddle with it. Though that means I have no knowledge of its capacity, I will also avoid shooting myself, or breaking it.

I am enjoying being alone. It gives my mind time to relax. I don't have to even attempt to understand things- all that I have to deal with are objects, and they are much more natural than people. Only one function, and sometimes two or three. That's the end of it.

A squirrel runs across the road in front of me, obviously agitated. That is what stops me, at first. It takes a predator to bother an animal. I search the sky briefly, and come to a stop, listening.

There is a sound in the foliage. Several sounds, in fact. Loud. Inexperienced. While not clumsy, something is in the wood that is not suited to be. If I had left the engine on, however, I would not have noticed it. My hand finds the gun easily, and I hop to the pavement, making much less noise than whatever is walking through the trees.

Slowly, I skirt the forest's edge, listening for further information.

"I have a branch stuck in my shoe," a voice says. It sparks something in my memory. Not a mutt. A contestant. Whom I ought to kill. Is it male or female? Medium in register. Which one is that?

I'm having difficulty remembering, and a large, avian shape that passes through the cloudless sky distracts me, sending my thoughts back to square one. It's a voice. Talking. Which means there is another voice to answer. Unless…

A different voice, this one also familiar. An odd sort of emphasis, on different parts of the words than that of the first. "We can stop, if you want to. My shoes are fine, though."

They stop allowing me to catch up. I catch a glimpse of them through the branches. Though the body types are surprisingly androgynous, I can tell with what is approaching certainty that one is male and the other female. My eyes catch on something that shines – a ring – and I can see that the broader of the two is Dylan, the one wearing the geometric cut-glass ring set in a thick silvery metal band. Ah. Dylan and Diele, then. Technically, we should be allies. In the light of Rippel's betrayal, however, I opt to stay hidden, settling behind a large tree trunk.

"Ah, got it," Diele says, and I imagine her pulling a twig from her shoe, which I recall as being a black, round-toed sort of boot with a silver buckle, a long scuff on the inner sole of the right one, and a dead ant in one of the left heel's treads, which left a typical triangle tessellation print. I wonder vaguely if the ant is still there.

"Good. Want to eat, while we're resting?" Dylan says.

"Why not?"

They have food. That would be a good reason to reveal myself. I should wait, at least, until they begin to walk again, which will muffle the sounds of my approach and make it appear as though I have not been eavesdropping.

"You know, this isn't half bad," one of them says. I have lost track of the voices, and can't remember which one is speaking.

"The arena? no, I guess not," the other says, and I assume it to be Dylan.

"Well, not just that… it's been… nice, you know? Like a vacation," says Diele.

"Never had one of those before," Dylan says.

"If you're with the right people, it can be anywhere."

"So, like, if I went to the beach with my parents? Well, I guess we don't get on well all the time… I don't suppose that counts, does it?"

"No, not really."

"How about you? Your parents?"

"Let's talk about something else."

They go silent for a few moments, though I can't imagine why.

"We should talk about something other than the Games, at least," says the voice that I am coming to identify as Dylan's.

"Sure."

"Who's your best friend?"

"Don't really have one, I guess. Unless you count?"

"I don't know. This can't last very long, can it? And the last time I had a best friend… that was when I was a little kid."

Diele makes a long, breathy sound.

"We should at least be friends," she says.

"Agreed. We're friends. It doesn't really count as an alliance with only two, does it?"

"Wonder what happened to Lucian," says Diele, after a second.

"He's probably halved the arena's population of ants by now. Wherever he is, he's happy," says Dylan.

"Creepy guy, that one."

"It's his kind of place, no?"

They're quiet again, and I hear what suggests water being sipped.

"I'll look around up ahead," says Diele. "I think the road is slanting up."

"Go ahead. I'll be ready to go by the time you get back."

There is a rustling as Diele stands, and begins to walk away. Dylan makes sounds of cleaning up, bushing away leaves and rustling paper bags. I carefully make enough noise to alert him to my presence, and walk up to join him. Dylan has always struck me as being simpler than Diele.

"Hello," I say in greeting. Despite my efforts, he looks up with a start, utterly surprised to see me.

"Hey, Lucian. How'd you catch up?"

"I walked. A lot."

"Oh," he says, tilting his head. "Well, Auroch's dead. He didn't have the gun on him, though. We think he might have run into Demetra and – hey, how'd you get that?"

I've made an error. The gun is still in my hand. Dylan looks at me more closely. I think I see apprehension, though he is obviously more than reluctant to accuse me of anything. I am still his ally, and I know very well that I should not do anything rash.

"I picked it up."

It's certainly the truth. He purses his lips.

"Well, I'll talk to Diele. What got Rippel?"

The explanation that has been forming in my head has not had time to adjust.

"Auroch," I say.

"Chalice killed Auroch. He was ahead of us."

"Mutts."

"Lucian, sit down," he says. "I'm going to go get Diele, okay? You must be hungry. She has most of the food."

His fist is clenching and unclenching. This worries me. Fists are a sign of violence, if my memory serves me. I don't like violence directed at me. He is likely lying. I wish I could be certain, but I can't afford to wait if he is.

Shaking my head, I raise the gun. His eyes widen.

"Woah. Lucian. Okay, I just want to go talk to Diele. I'm sure you've had a rough couple of days since Rippel…"

I cock the gun. He stops talking, looking me in the eyes.

"Lucian, I'm your ally," Dylan says quietly. "I've never done anything to hurt you. Put the gun down. Just put it down, and we can eat, okay?"

I don't move.

"You don't want to do this," he says, keeping his voice even. "There is no good reason to shoot me. You don't really want to, do you?"

"Yes, I'm thinking I do," I say flatly.

"Why? As a group, you are less likely to be killed. Just put the gun down, Lucian. Put it down, and we can pretend this didn't happen. It's okay. You've been alone for a long time, and it is understandable for you to be on-edge."

My breath comes out in a huff.

"Why do people always talk so much when I'm trying to shoot them?"

"It's just a bad idea, Lucian. Slow down and think for a second."

I'm about to reply when I feel a shadow and whirl around. Diele is standing there, at the exact wrong angle, casting a show on my arm. She reaches for my gun with impossible quickness.

I've always been faster than she is. With ease, I adjust my aim from Dylan to her, squeezing the trigger and firing a shot at point-blank range through her skull.

As he's been talking, Dylan has been edging towards me, and complete shock registers as Diele falls. He is only about three feet away, at this point, and I take the brief opportunity to club him twice on the temple with the gun in my hand.

There is only one cannon, and I am certain of who it is for. I glance at the prone forms on the ground, briefly pointing the barrel at Dylan again, but deciding not to. As before, he was always a bit slower than Diele, and definitely than Demetra. I don't know how many bullets I have left, or if I have any at all.

Wouldn't want to waste them.

By the time he wakes up, I'll be long gone.

I step over Diele, notice how close she is to Dylan, and drag her body to the middle of the road. She is heavy, though, and I'm no strong man. I don't even make it to the median before I give up.

While I don't look back, I hear her shift as the hovercraft carries her away.

I climb quickly onto my steamroller, starting it up with the key and setting off at a pace faster than I could sustainably run.

Even as I pass the site where I encountered Dylan and Diele, where an already-browning blood splatter decorates the pavement, I don't slow down, definitely don't stop. With any luck, the Gamemakers will send in a mutt to finish Dylan off.

I will save my resources for bigger game.

**-x**

**Her picture is in the sky that night.**

_**Diele Hobel, District One.**_

**Dead.**

**Yes, this was a shorter than usual chapter, and I have no excuse for why it took so long other than that Lucian is _really_difficult to write. Longest POV for him yet!**

**Moment of silence for Diele, of course. Moment over. Dylan's alone now, the poor guy. And he's going to have quite a headache when he wakes up.**

**Check out the new poll on my profile. We're down to seven!**

_This update's question:_ Who would you like to see die next?


	48. Piercing

**Piercing**

**Holland (D8)**

"Someone's been here," Lissom says sharply, eyes whipping furtively back and forth. She doesn't look like she should still be standing up. It's as if the third of the brown blanket, which is wrapped around her shoulders as a shawl, is the only thing holding her together. Nonetheless, she clutches her knife in her right hand.

"What clued you in?" Skiff replies dryly, making a face at the heavy, burnt smell that hangs in the air. He, too, is looking hollow, but much less feverish than Lissom.

"Both of you," I sigh. "Let's look around."

I'm feeling marginally better since the bread we received last afternoon. Lissom all but stabbed me when I offered her my portion, and I was thankful, in the end, that she didn't take it. It's lovely to have something in my stomach again, though my system is really not used to it. I shouldn't be surprised.

We've reached a sort of rest stop thing. In fact, that's exactly what it is. The sign says as much. What little ground is free from concrete is beaten down by footprints, though there is no one in sight.

"Do you think mutts got that Career?" I ask. "Could the rest of them be ahead of us?"

Skiff huffs under his breath. "Unlikely. Wasn't it the girl from Two and the boy from Three ahead of us? It's them we're worried about. The Careers are down to two. And only one of them is really dangerous."

Lissom stops, tilting her head to look at him.

"What do you mean? They're both Careers. Both have higher scores than any of us."

"The one from Two isn't much bigger than us. He only got a seven, no? There are three of us. We could take him. He didn't even volunteer."

Lissom scoffs, stopping again. She raises an eyebrow at Skiff. I've been around the two of them long enough to know that she's about to launch off on an explanation of why Skiff is wrong, which will lead to a counterargument by the latter that will get them both nowhere and lead to a whole lot of annoyance as I play peacemaker.

"You know what?" I cut in, as she is about to speak. "I'm going to look at the machines. One of you should check the building, and I'd appreciate it if one of you would come with me. Sound good?"

Skiff shoots Lissom a withering look, which she immediately reciprocates.

"I'll go with Holland," Skiff says, not looking away from her.

"Have fun," she mutters, breaking off and stalking into the sheltered area.

"Look, man, can you at least try to get along with her?" I say, annoyed, as soon as she is out of earshot.

His reply is an annoyed sort of sniff.

We walk over to the machines, which I inspect. They're very colorful, and I don't recognize them. I turn to Skiff, who shrugs. One of them has a large hole in the glass panel. It appears to have been punched, likely by someone very strong and extremely angry. Most of the supplies are gone.

"They're… food machines?" I suggest, and Skiff shrugs again, inspecting the glass-paneled machine thoroughly. He taps the little keypad, and I think I see recognition in his eyes.

"Holland! Do you still have those little disks?" He asks quickly, the words tripping over themselves as they leave his mouth.

"Yeah," I say, struggling to pull the entire handful from my pocket. "What, are they finally going to be useful?"

"I think so," he says, snatching four of them and forcing one through a slot I barely noticed.

A little screen lights up, with the number '25'. I can feel my eyes widen. "What's it doing? Try adding another!"

The screen reads '50'.

Skiff's stopped paying attention to the slot, and begins to look over the jumble of packages inside.

"You know," says Lissom, appearing like a wraith behind us. "I could probably reach most of what's in there. You shouldn't waste the discs. Try them in the ones where you can't see the stuff."

I nearly jump in surprise, but Skiff, not as startled, nods grudgingly.

"How do I get them out?" he asks.

Wordlessly, Lissom points to a little silver button marked 'coin return'.

"Do I press it?" He says, turning to me for guidance. All I have to reply with is a shrug. I don't like the inconspicuous little button. I have a bad feeling altogether about the machines, in fact, but my stomach tells me not to think about it, just to get the food.

"Go ahead," Lissom replies, though he did not ask her. She takes a few steps away, though, as if she is expecting something to explode.

"Be careful," I advise him. "You're welcome not to."

I, too, step to the side, surveying the machine. Towards the bottom, I can see a large slot with a bizarre slant outward. Moving further towards the machine with pictures of bottles, I can see that it has a similar one.

Skiff bites his lip, glances first at Lissom and then at me, and smashes the button, quickly withdrawing his hand. The machine makes a tinny sort of gurgle, and nothing happens.

"Check the slot? On the bottom?" I suggest tentatively, and he shrugs, kneeling down to check for the two coins.

"I can't see a thing… it's awfully dark… hold on!"

The machine has started to whir, and I can hear a _clink_ reminiscent of the sound the coins made in my pocket. I look up, to see Lissom's eyes wide, her mouth half-opened as if she is about to say something important, but rethinking it.

"Um," she says quickly, noticing that I can see her, "Skiff… you might wanna…"

A streak of silver shoots from the slot, its path angled slightly upwards. It covers the distance between its point of origin and its destination almost too fast to see, and I can't get so much as a word in before, slightly slower, it hits the pavement in a spray of blood.

Skiff, leaning up towards the slot, crumples. I'm lunging forward… there hasn't been a cannon yet, maybe we can save him… but Lissom moves much faster than me, leaping over his spasming body and trying to push me out of the way.

"Holland… wait!" she growls, her eyes flickering to the machine and back to me. "Come on! Move!"

"_I_ _need to help him_!" I insist, pushing past her easily.

"Just wait! _Wait_! Get out of the way, or you're going to _die_!" Lissom shrieks, throwing all her weight onto her shoulder and knocking me to the ground, my face a few inches from Skiff's.

The machine makes another guttering _clunk_, but I can barely hear it over the cry that escapes unbidden from my lips. Skiff's eyelid hangs in tatters, twitching along with the rest of him over the tear in his eye itself. While the wound itself is deceptively clean, a sickening, clotted pool of blood extends from the base of his skull.

Lissom's fingernails dig deep into my arms, and my vision clears to her face contorted in some sort of emotion. She rolls away, her hand pressed tight to the shoulder that… blood is seeping out from under her hand, too.

And it's just such an awful moment. Everyone is bleeding. Skiff is _dying_, and if not for Lissom, I could be as well…

"I don't think we can do anything for him," she says gently. "He's lost too much blood. I'm sorry you couldn't help him."

"I can't… I can't see this…" I choke, trying to turn away.

"Cover your ears and close your eyes," she advises.

I obey, but my fingers can't keep out the sickening crunch as she crushes his throat with a bare foot, and the thin membranes over my eyes don't stop me from seeing it in my mind, over and over.

"Stand up, keep your eyes closed," says Lissom, putting a hand on my shoulder and steering me away from the machines as a cannon overhead seals my friend's fate.

My breathing is fast and uneven, which I know isn't good, but I can't seem to slow it down. Once I feel a shadow over my head, I open my eyes a crack. The scenery has changed, and we're in a huge, grungy, tiled bathroom. Air rushes in from the poorly sealed roof, and through a yellowed window in the ceiling, I can see a flash of orange as the hovercraft passes.

I choke back another sob as Lissom limps her way to a stall in the back of the room and closes the plastic curtain. Water hits the tiles, and I can tell time is moving forward, but I can't seem to bring myself to move.

Skiff was so real. I knew him, and I knew his flaws, and I knew that he did have a _few_ good points, and I knew what they were… he was smart, he did what he thought was right… and though Perl, who I also knew, died… she wasn't as real. I didn't know her for as long, or as well.

Lissom, still in her brown swimming-suit and dripping wet with water and diluted blood, shivers as she walks over to join me by the door.

"I should have taken his jumpsuit," she says through chattering teeth.

"Don't talk like that!"

"I'll talk however I want. He's dead. We've managed to stay alive. He'd want us to have the best shot possible at winning."

"He's dead, and we're alive! Don't you feel bad about that?"

"And at least one of us won't be alive for much longer. Why are we discussing this?"

"Because we're people! Our responses to… to terrible things like this… are what define us!" I say, frustrated. "And right now, you're not acting very human."

She begins to dry herself off with paper towels from a slot in the wall, knotting a few together to make a sort of bandage for the still-open wound in her shoulder where the second coin sliced through her. It must not be as bad as it looks, because she barely seems to notice.

"Look, Holland," she says slowly. "I can tell that you're upset. And I get that, okay? But this was something you had to come here expecting to happen. People die in the arena. Lots of people die. Sooner or later, you were going to run into it personally."

I grind my teeth in frustration, feeling tears wet on my cheeks.

"What's the deal with you?" I ask finally. "You didn't just see him die… you killed him."

"I don't like to see suffering. It was for the best."

"Was it? Was it really?"

Lissom rounds on me, looking extremely tired.

"Okay, look, Holland. This is how I deal with stuff, okay? I don't talk it out. I'm not big on sharing _anything_. I'm hurt, and I'm cold, and this is really not the best time to get on my nerves."

"I saved your life," I say slowly, reluctant to pull out my trump card and already regretting it.

"In case you haven't noticed, I saved yours as well," she growls, her eyes narrowing, her hand flying to the bandage on her shoulder. "Did you see where you were headed? The machine could have taken you out exactly like Skiff, but it didn't."

"Oh…"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"Head on out, you can help me by making a fire. I just don't like talking, okay? Can we agree to be quiet for a few minutes?"

I nod numbly, walking out the door with a handful of brown paper towels for tinder. Lissom follows me a few seconds later, arms absolutely full of swaths of paper. She deposits her load on a scuffed concrete bench, and begins doffing around in the machine that brought us so much trouble in the first place.

As the fire is beginning to catch, and I am feeling a bit better, she walks over with a handful of bags.

"There weren't many left," she says simply, handing me a bag that says 'Funyans'. "But it should be enough to keep us going."

She slashes a hole in her own bag with her knife, and cuts open mine as well after a minute or so of struggling to open them without hands. The salty smell is intoxicating after so long without anything more flavorful than a piece of bread.

While I continue on and eat another bag after the first, Lissom looks vaguely ill and refuses.

"I can't just watch you sit there," I say, biting my lip.

"Yes you can. Eat up," she mutters, standing laboriously and beginning to construct a sort of nest from the paper towels.

Halfway through, she seems to run out. "I could go get more," I suggest.

"No, I'll do it."

I put my head in my hands, feeling the heat of the fire on my skin. It's just… so awful. Living. Being here, in the arena. Skiff being gone. Lissom being Lissom. I've got no one to talk to. And I'll probably die soon enough and remove myself from the whole equation.

At least life can't get any worse.

* * *

**I'm not even going to try to apologize enough, seriously... just let it be known, the plot as a whole has undergone a _major_(and by 'major' I mean ENORMOUS AND RATHER DIFFICULT TO THINK ABOUT) overhaul. And... school. Just school. Seems to be the excuse of choice lately.**

**Anyway, it would pay to disregard pretty much any hints I've dropped up until now.**

**If LittleSchemer could PM me about her 'supermagicalgiftoptionthing', that would be awesome. :3**

**And as always, thank you for reviewing. You all keep me sane through these trying times of schoolwork and writer's block.**

_**Edit: Eepta, some formatting issues... trying to fix this. Thanks for putting up!**_

_This update's question:_ Let's talk about the 'apocalypse'. How did you prepare? How _would_ you, if you knew it was going to happen?


	49. Evanescent

**Evanescent**

**Lectic (D3)**

It's early in the morning, a patch of orange bleeding into the deep indigo horizon. Neither of us are particularly well-rested. The terrain has become patchy and poorly maintenanced, the only interjections to the engine's hum and the jolts of the tires on the rough asphalt being Demetra's muttered oaths as the steering wheel does not instantly obey her over the worst of the potholes.

She has introverted herself since the birds at the rest stop. At first, it was a bit of a relief, as what she says generally stings quite a bit. But I'm beginning to worry I've done something unforgivable by her district's standards, and she is contemplating my grisly murder.

Not that it wouldn't surprise me, of course. When I recall reaping day, when I watched the events one by one over dinner with my mentor, I expected her to kill me.

Rather, I never would have expected her to pass up a chance to.

Hopefully, she isn't breaking some unspoken District Two law by letting me live at her expense. In fact, just thinking that makes it seem extremely likely.

"Lectic?"

I turn to her, flinching at her lip bandage which is once again drenched in blood. She's been chewing on it, again. In the eerie light of the morning, she looks like something out of a horror film.

"What's wrong?" I ask, noticing that her brows are knitted together in some unexpressed emotion.

"What would you do if I just… up and left, right now?"

"Most likely die. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. What if I tried to kill you?" she continues, with an air of careful casualty.

"_Definitely_ die."

I force a small smile, feeling too weary to respond in any intelligent manner. This is what she's been ruminating over.

"Seriously. Would you be… okay with it?"

"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have a choice. Especially if I was, you know, dead. There's no 'try', about you killing me."

At her arched eyebrow, I sigh and continue.

"Fine. It would depend on what you were going to do, and whether I thought I would be able to help. If you wanted to hack someone's Games stats page, I'd try to come with. Why are you asking?"

"That would be extremely stupid. Can you promise me that if you woke up one day and I was gone, you wouldn't follow me?"

"Why?"

"At this point, it would suck to have to kill you," she deadpans, and my smile withers as I realize she is serious.

It's sometimes hard to tell with Demetra. I wait a second for her to say something, but she turns back to the road, thinking, again.

"Do you _want_ to leave?" I ask hesitantly, entirely unsure of what her answer will be… and what I'm hoping she'll say.

"I'm just not sure right now," she sighs. "It's getting light. You want breakfast?"

"Sure."

I undo my lap belt as Demetra slows the car, hopping out the second the engine goes quiet, flamethrower in hand. She's at the trunk by the time I make my stiff-legged exit, and tosses me a sticky bun.

"I'm really starting to hate these things," she comments, tearing open a bright orange bag of cheesy corn chips.

Taking one of the smaller jugs of water from the back, I drink deeply, handing it to Demetra, who does the same. We pass it back and forth, slowly washing the cloying tastes of the snack food down our throats.

I watch the sun as it slowly materializes in the orange haze, a sliver of gold on the horizon, flickering through the distant trees. Mornings here are things of beauty.

Demetra follows my gaze, and scoffs.

"You're gonna blind yourself, genius."

We stretch in a state of near silence, me trying to work out the knots in my neck from sleeping in the car, her doing some bizarre one-legged thing that seems to involve balance, strength, and looking like a complete head case.

She brings her foot down from her shoulder abruptly, looking to have made some sort of decision.

"I want you to try to incapacitate me. I'm attacking you. Right now."

"Do we really have to do this? I suck at fighting."

"Come on. Let's see a palm to the solar plexus. It's not as if you can hurt me much."

I crack my fingers awkwardly, extend the heel of my hand, and sort of half-tap-half-nudge her. She's balanced on her heels so while I push her back about an inch, she rolls forward again, smirking at my attempt.

"Lectic. You need to learn this." There's a surprising amount of seriousness in her comment.

She darts over into the brush, grabbing a stick about the width of three fingers and a bit longer than my arm and handing it to me.

"Try this. They make good clubs. Lots of leverage. Even someone smaller than you could catch me at the right angle and smash in my skull.

Hesitantly, I raise it in the air.

"Oh, no. You're not practicing on me. But bring it in the car with us. I'll find you some trees to beat up in an hour or so."

She rubs her knees, still badly scraped from her fall despite the feathery landing.

"I hate trees," she growls, and I can see the muscle in her arms flexing as she tightens her grip on the flamethrower.

"Okay, you ready to head off, then?" I ask, with a cheerfulness I don't feel.

"Oh, shut up, Lectic," she sighs, pursing her lips.

We re-enter the car, me not quite understanding quite what is going on, but still feeling pleased that I recognize, at least, there is something off. Demetra's fingers drum the wheel, and I catch her glancing at me more than once as the machine hums to life.

"Do you want me to fix your bandage?" I ask, noticing that it is doing very little to stop the flow of blood as she chews her wound.

The car jolts over an uneven patch, and Demetra growls 'shit!', swerving towards the trees and then back. The poor road has been costing us time and fuel, and I'm not completely sure how much farther the gasoline in the Capitol tank will get us, or even really how the engine works.

For all I know, we've been leaking gas slowly the entire trip, and the tank itself is just a decoy to stop me from messing around under the hood.

Also, I've got an odd sort of intuitive feeling that Demetra's comment earlier about leaving wasn't entirely in jest, but I would really rather not consider that. Instead, I try to imagine what is going on in the Capitol.

They will most likely be watching some sort of drama somewhere else, or we would be having more trouble than a broken road. Non-fatal mutts, a small disaster, a little betrayal, something of the like. Or perhaps they know something I don't about Demetra, and they are holding their collective breath, waiting for her to kill me as violently as possible.

Yay, entertainment. This train of thought is getting me nowhere. I stare at Demetra's hair, which is wildly curly, though less in the way you see in Three. More… loose, I guess. Very brown. My mother's hair is tightly crinkled, though I would call it curly as well.

Thinking of such things, I run my hand over my own head, still almost expecting to feel a full head of hair to rake my fingers through as I think. To my surprise, I find fuzz. Just a little, around the crown, but my hair is beginning to grow back…

Demetra turns to see me smiling uncertainly, not sure what to make of the development. She seems to notice my hand on my head, and tilts her head in thought.

"You know, if you put on a wig, I bet you could pass for a girl," she comments.

"Lovely. How can you always tell exactly what I'm thinking?" I sigh, though it does little to stop the smile that is growing on my face.

I feel better in control, knowing that something as unimportant and trivial from before the arena is back with me again. I was always indifferent towards my hair- it was maybe a little thicker, maybe a little straighter than average for Three, but mostly because of my dad's mom, who was originally from a part of District Four.

I never saw losing it as an identity thing, but having something back that I thought had been taken away from me, along with my chances of survival and the possibility of seeing my family again, means a lot.

"Don't get too excited, it'll be a while before yours is even half as glorious as mine," Demetra sniffs, seeing that I am pleased. She begins to crack her knuckles, one by one, which is both irritating and terrifying.

"You're inhuman. It's unlikely that I'll ever achieve even that," I say blandly, returning my attention to the landscape.

"Exactly. See, this is why we get along."

"You remind me of my cat," I laugh. "That's pretty much how our relationship works as well. Only the only way he ever honestly helped me was by passing up a chance to knock me down the stairs. Turned out it was only because his attention was occupied coughing up a hairball on my bed."

"Excuse me, I can't recall the last time _I _vomited on you. This proves I am the superior life form. To everything."

"I never said you weren't. I value my life."

We pause for a second, both realizing that we have stopped more-or-less ignoring one another, and have inadvertently slipped back into our usual repartee.

"Demetra," I say slowly, "why do you want to leave?"

"Damn. I was trying not to be obvious about it."

"You asked me what I would do if you did. It was a bit of a tip-off."

She huffs in displeasure. "Well, you ask me stupid questions about death and stuff all the time! That doesn't mean you're planning on killing me."

I smile wryly. "Or does it?"

Her snort tells me that I am not even a little bit of a threat to her. It occurs to me that there is probably very little in the arena, or even Panem, that Demetra considers a threat. If the rest of us left had the ability to turn various appendages into machine guns, she would almost certainly mock us into insecurity before gleefully murdering us in our vulnerable state of self-consciousness.

Really, she's the best suited to win. It was stupid of me to ever think that wasn't what she was planning to do every second, from allying to… now.

"Are you even listening to me? There are so few people left. I have to assume that most of them are dangerous, and aren't going to get any less dangerous as we keep running away."

"What about… what's at the end of the road? There has to be something, remember?" I can't quite understand why this is bothering me so much.

"Look. This was… never really going to last, anyway. It probably even shouldn't have started. Imagine if you won, right now… if everyone just dropped dead. Think about it."

The mental image that develops involves a disturbing fixation on attempting to revive Demetra.

"You couldn't go back to your district," she clarifies. "They probably all hate you by now. Don't worry, Two hates me more."

Of course. _Of course._ There's never been any love between Three and Two. We're the much-disliked little brother, barely tolerated because of our occasional usefulness in taking blame and improving life for our big sister, whom we despise in equal measure for her success.

Also, they tend to kill us. Accidentally, calculatedly, or in a full-on Cato rage. We're not too fond of that.

"See, you may not have realized it, but it was only a few important guidelines and the obvious difficulties in accomplishing such a thing that were keeping my mentor from killing me. She didn't like you very much."

"I get it. For the district? I just… didn't think you were the type to care that much about public opinion," I say hopelessly, curling my knees up to my chest and wincing as my wounds, already grown stiff, begin to bleed sluggishly once again.

"Psh. Fuck the district. What about my family? What's my mom thinking about this? She knew my mentor. They went to school together. She would probably take her side. I wish I could talk to her. You know how parents are."

No, not really. But I nod anyway.

"So you're sure, then."

"I'm not sure about anything. But I want to go home. And I honestly don't want to be the one to do you in. But if it comes down to it…"

"Don't worry about it. I've been expecting if for a while," I mutter dully, just feeling sore and confused and so, so tired. "It's what you do, after all."

"Yep. It kind of is."

"What's next, after you win?"

"Food. I'll never eat another corn chip or sticky bun. Lots of steak."

"Could you do me a favor?" I ask, trying to think of things that I would want to do myself.

"Depends on the favor."

"Says the girl planning to kill me," I laugh humorlessly. "Could you take care of my cat? Bring him back to District Two with you? I think he'd be better off there. Just keep him fed, if you can. He'll let you know what he wants. Your personalities are remarkably similar."

"You're taking this far too well," she remarks, her brow furrowing. "I'll take care of your cat. I like cats."

I grip the large, club like stick that leans on the door, feeling the sticky bun rolling around in my stomach. Maybe I am under reacting. Maybe I should be asking her not to leave. But I can't help but feel like the outcome will be the same no matter what I do. Why make it worse for either of us? I never should have gotten so invested.

"The scream-y noises he makes mean he wants attention," I say halfheartedly. "He's a bit homicidal. Be careful."

"I'm sure we'll get along well," she says, glancing at my face. "Oh, Lectic, don't be miserable. This is really for the best."

She switches her flamethrower to her left hand and extends her right, patting me awkwardly on the shoulder. I close my eyes as tightly as I can.

"It's really been an honor. Tell my family I love them," I murmur, wishing I could flick a slow motion key and stop the moment from passing so quickly.

Demetra punches the horn loudly, then again, jolting me into full awareness. She leans in, whispering to me quickly, her lips barely moving.

"We'll see each other again. But when we do, I'll have to kill you."

She stops her assault on the horn, smiling thinly.

"I'm not good at goodbyes. Sorry."

Slowly, she eases off the gas pedal, turning back to the seat behind us, yanking a few bags of chips and a gallon of water into her lap. Then she kicks the door open, flips the safety on her flamethrower, holds her arms to her chest, and rolls headlong out of the car.

I lunge after her, worried she slipped, but she is already on her feet and running in the opposite direction. My seatbelt catches me before I would have had the chance to catch her, anyway.

While the car continues to move forward, I slide into the driver's seat, gazing behind the car as she disappears into the woods, never looking back. I close the door behind her. My eyes feel swollen and my throat is heavy. I am barely conscious of putting my foot back on the gas pedal.

Her leaving happened so fast. But when I turn around, I can no longer see her running. I still occasionally check the passenger seat, expecting to see her lounging there.

The car feels empty. So do I.

**-x**

**I'm sorry. For a lot of things, not the least of which is how long it took me to write. My only explanation is that I've been in a crazy boarding school and have had about 7-10 minutes to myself a night to write.**

**LittleSchemer, both of the potential victims will be visited in the chapter after this one. I would love to know your gift choice by then. :)**

**An enormous thank you to each and every person who reviews. This represents a surprising number of stolen minutes of my time.**


	50. Implacable

**Implacable**

**Dylan (D4)**

Maybe I passed him a while back. Lucian is clever. He might not have continued down the road, knowing that I would follow. He might have doubled back. He might be living it up in the gas station.

But what stops me from turning around and following my instincts is the burning knowledge that he _might not have_, and that every step I took towards rather than away from the Cornucopia might be _one step farther_ from smashing the turncoat, murderous bastard's skull in.

I'd be lying if I said that every atom in my body wasn't screaming for his blood on my hands.

My beef is not with anyone else in the arena. If I came upon the two small ones, Demetra, the Three boy, though, there would be little more than a flimsy mental barrier stopping me from reverting to the constant messages to kill that have been floating through the District, and its inhabitants, since the moment of birth. My time of restraint is over. My allies are dead. Diele is dead. My friend is dead. Nothing is holding me back any more.

Why stop at Lucian? I'm going to kill everyone. Everyone in this damn arena. With my hands, if I have to.

Some little reservoir of logic in the base of my skull has been humming away through the throbbing of my head where he hit me and through the violent anger that courses through my veins, clouding my vision. This is what I know.

I am unarmed. While I am certain Lucian ran at first, he must have doubled back and tossed my clubs over the edge of the arena. I could see silver glinting there, thousands of feet to the rocky ground. I have no food. He took that, too. I know that he will be armed and fed and quite possibly expecting me. I also know that I don't care.

I have had no training with firearms. I can't pretend that I have much more than a vague idea of what I am going up against. But he can shoot me until I am more bullet holes than I am human, and I will snap his neck before I die. He can knock me over the head as hard as he likes, smash my skull to fragments, and I will rip his throat open as I spasm on the asphalt. He can cut my arm off, and I will pick it up and use it to beat him to death.

This isn't about winning. It's about revenge. Blood for blood. All of them… why didn't we see it from the start? Why did we let any of the Twos in for even a second? I don't know how any of them make it to five… the whole district is a madhouse.

For Diele, who saved my life more than once, for Chalice, who did nothing to invite what Panem did to her, for Rippel, whose death is no doubt also on his list of murders, for Gull, who must have known...

We all deserve to die knowing that our killer would remember us until the day they died, would feel our pain twice over, would see our faces in their dreams and honor the sacrifice we made so they could live. Without that, we are wasted.

It makes my blood boil that so many are forgotten, because of him. Perseverance through agony, bravery until death, a willingness to _live_, no matter the cost – traits that define us as Careers – are lost.

I will kill him, or I will die trying. I will win, or die trying. I will _win_. If only to be the one who remembers my allies. Even those who tried to kill me. Even those I could have saved. Even those who died in vain.

It will hurt, but I will remember them.

No such coordinated thoughts are truly surfacing in my consciousness, but I can feel them there when I reach. I try to cordon them off, in an effort to conserve my focus. I fixate on the stab of pain that rips through my chest with each sharp breath I take.

I can almost bring myself back to the past, with my eyes on the road and my rib throbbing. Not a pleasant time, but… better then than now. I can almost make myself see Diele running beside me, out of the corner of my eye, just outside of my peripheral vision.

No, 'going' crazy doesn't begin to cover it. Even I can see it. Maybe it's something about the immensely repetitive terrain, the fact that there is no part of my body that does not hurt, or the recent, cold-blooded murder of a friend. A _friend_. My _only_ friend. _Ever_.

Just like that, I am seething, burning, blood-parched-angry all over again.

When I was little, my father would bring me into work with him often, to meet the men and women who were already victors, or almost certainly would be in the near future. I wasn't scared of them, because he spoke of them as if they were friends when mom would ask about work.

It was a long distance from our house. I learned just how big single family homes could be, on the route to the District Four Center for Physical Education, an large, imposing, clean building in a sea of fine houses and gritty sands swept for miles by the wind.

The day I visited, it was nearly empty, but for a few of the functioning victors, a handful of trainers, and three or four of the most devoted students.

Delmara, a woman whom I still know only by her first name, was the only one from the section of the district that I grew up in.

She looked a lot like Scilla, though she was taller and broader in the shoulders, less angular of face. She spoke the native tongue of District Four much better than the others. I gathered that it was her first language, rather than a few words, sentences here and there like most of the people my father introduced me to.

I liked Delmara a lot, though her hands shook too much to hold a spear, and she didn't seem to have a protégé like the rest did. She seemed a good person. My mother would later tell me that the older men and women of the district, who trained before the Great Rebellion, were the remnants of a lost generation of District Four, one which was thinned greatly by the war they chose to fight, and did not win. While my father and Delmara would have been too young to participate in any kind of war, they remember.

It makes them different than the other residents of the training center—best to admit what it truly is.

While few of the people there paid me much mind apart from the obvious comparisons to my father, Delmara would sometimes speak with me over the lunch break. While my father spoke quietly with other trainers, she would tell me about the greenback minnows she and her little brother once caught. I liked her stories, I remember, because she mixed her two languages together as she told them.

She was reluctant to give me advice that might lead to my joining the center full-time. But she seemed to accept that I would, though she never encouraged me like my father did.

I think that might be where he and I began to get angry at each other, when I first exhibited a reluctance to do, as he put it, the 'right thing'. And I think that may be why I still question what we are doing, in the end, as Careers. I never really had a good reason. I had to make up my own.

Delmara was not terribly instrumental in my training once I began in earnest.

_-Who would want him to win?_ she would ask me, in the language that would not be understood even if those around us could hear, on the occasions our lunch schedules would intersect, and she and I would eat together. I would be telling her the story of the boy who broke his sparring partner's collarbone only to receive a class promotion, or the new recruit who won a coveted place in a high-ranking swordplay study group, supposedly, through the skilled bribery of a teacher. _Isn't the goal to learn how to win? No one will want you to win if you are like them. No one will teach you how if you presume to already know.-_

She was right. In the long run, while the public schools cannot refuse anyone proper training, neither boy I asked her about was called back the next year to the center.

I did things the right way, tried to listen to her, the instructors, the victors, my father.

Look where it's taken me.

If I was to return to Four, right now, I would not be the restrained, careful person that Delmara wanted for me to become. I have let rage overcome my sensibilities. I have not considered my actions' effects on anyone, not even myself.

She is not likely pleased with what I've done.

I'm not sure _I _am.

One of the stories she told me, about the minnows, was about keeping them in a glass jar, feeding them, and having them swim there for weeks on-end, obedient little pets, wriggling through the tiny cylinder that made up their world.

I used to imagine that, being cut off from the rest of the world, in a little bubble of my own, necessary supplies provided in a manner beyond my understanding.

For some reason, those daydreams were always happy.

This arena is my own little hell.

Maybe, if no one else, my dad is proud of me. I'm made it very far. I hope I haven't disappointed him, too, somehow.

I probably have. It's the only thing that could make this torment worse.

I continue down the pavement, feeling sicker and weaker with every footfall, as my head aches and my lungs burn and my ribs cry out for rest.

There won't be any rest for me.

I have nothing else to live for but to kill Lucian Gray. So that's what I'm going to do.

As I run, I feel disapproving eyes on my back, goading me inexplicably away from the people whom I could not all please.

Though I am driven by terrible, forceful hatred that shows so outwardly I have difficulty containing it, the invisible hand pushing me forward is a wordless anger at what I have become, and the blind, ceaseless hope that if I travel another mile, I'll finally make them… all of them… see that I am worthy of their approval.

There is a silver package from the sky that breaks my concentration, somewhere along the trek that has nearly numbed me to the pain and the repetition of it all.

It's oddly oblong, but I hold on to the hope that it is food, somehow… in a bizarre container.

When it isn't, I feel irrationally angry. Instead of a bottle of water, which I desperately need, or a cylindrical pile of vegetables, which would be even better, it is a long, light wooden bat with the weight and feel of smooth, bleached driftwood.

The muscles in my arm flex of their own accord, and I smash it against the pavement without breaking stride. It's very light, cheap wood. Nothing else so easily used as a weapon could make it into the arena so late.

It cracks into three spars, one splintery, short and unusable, one too bulbous at the end to be anything but a club. The third looks almost like a spear.

I discard the others, finding the balance of my crude weapon. My fist tightens around it, the jagged edge of the split digging into my palm. Above me, I hear a bird's cry, slowing down and looking up in time to see it dive from thousands of feet to some point below my line of vision.

I almost wish it had come for me. I want to test my spear.

Maybe it's better that my first true target will be Lucian's chest.

When the time comes, I'm sure I won't miss.

**-x**

**I'm back to a normal writing schedule. Next chapter will be with the Gamemakers, and the chapter after that, there will be a death.**

_This update's question_: Who do you think the next victim will be?


	51. Gamemaking

**Gamemaking**

**Aculeo**

Everything seems to be running smoothly, after over a week of non-stop panicking and frantic attempts to keep the games moving despite being understaffed, sleep-deprived, and in more than one instance, compensating for a drunken coworker.

Yes, it was Falx. Every time.

We're down to five full Gamemakers, and the only real executive decision we've made so far is that there's no time to try to elect a replacement Head. No one is even really certain _what _Xenia did, but we agree that everything worked together a lot better under her control.

I would have recommended Epicure for the post, but my seniority seems to have pushed me into the role of impromptu Head. That and how long I knew Xenia. People trusted her. I'm only just realizing how entirely she kept her private life from us all.

Unlike Xenia, I have very little control over Justinion. He's graduated from aggravating to intolerable since she died. It was him who bullied the control room staff into releasing the Terror Birds into the arena without our knowledge. Epicure and Cinian were working damage control all night, but the mutts reached Diele and Dylan first. If the two hadn't been clever enough to stop fighting, we could have lost the whole sequence with Lucian, and I might have had to kill Justinion myself.

In the aftermath of Xenia's loss, the reaction that has most surprised me is Cinian's. I'm still waiting for a break down, but all I see is a determination to get through this. She sticks with Epicure, watching him as he works, trying very hard to pick up the slack left behind by Falx as well as take on her own assignments. She is still learning, but I can see a lot of potential in her as a Gamemaker.

We've assembled for a meeting, though assembled is not the best word to use when only five people are involved and one does not even show up.

Justinion sits opposite me, his feet up on the table. He is clearly paying no attention to any of us. Cinian is buried in a stack of papers that lists muttations at our disposal, circling something with a red pen and passing it to Epicure.

My teeth grinding, I break the silence. "Do any of you know where Gamemaker Darcy has gotten himself to?"

"Passed out in a hallway somewhere. Trying to destroy that new liver of his," Justinion replies, not opening his eyes. "Can't we do something about him? He's worse than useless."

"We're already critically understaffed," Epicure sighs. He looks as though he hasn't slept in days, and his hair is noticeably grey.

"Is four really any different than five, if the fifth is a drunken idiot?" argues Justinion, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, why can't we just recruit someone else?"

"In case you haven't noticed, we don't exactly have people lining up around the building to sign up," I growl. "We pay well, but the _risks_ seem to be on most citizens' minds."

After the rebellion, every Gamemaker even suspected of association with Plutarch was executed. Xenia and I both survived the cuts, obviously, but we were the only two who stayed afterwards. I was still an intern at the time, but ended up with a fast promotion. Neither of us had family to worry about. The job was my life, and still is.

There haven't been any major tragedies, since then. But it's enough to make even the craziest Capitolite think twice before joining up.

"Okay, we're here for Cinian's idea, anyway," Epicure cuts in.

"Yes," I say, slightly relieved. The subject of recruitment has been bothering me for a long time, and I would welcome a distraction. "If you would?"

Cinian looks up with a start, wide blue eyes snapping open. She appears to have been close to dozing off.

"Oh! Um, I was looking through the mutts… you know, most of them are Justinion's, and we've already got the President's go-ahead on those… things… but Xenia had a few, too. And some are very interesting. I've circled a few."

She slides a manila folder from her pile to me. On opening it, there are several sections circled in red ink.

From back when I was not yet even a full Gamemaker, I can remember a woman, Calpurnia, if I recall correctly, who held the job that Justinion does now. Thinking back, they were very similar people. She had a vicious streak. No one on the staff was quite comfortable with her, and her ideas, though displaying a cruel creativity, had to be toned down more often than not.

Towards the end, she and the former President conspired to create the mutts that killed Odair. She was executed when Everdeen was revealed to have survived.

I see a lot of mutts that I remember vaguely. Xenia must have been going through old files, changing things, categorizing them for future use. Considering all the rest she did while on the job, she must not have slept much.

"This is… excellent work, Cinian. How long will it be until we have them at our disposal?"

"Some are already in holding. I made a few calls. Whether for this year or for next. A few will take longer to complete. They're having problems with the unicorns. Those might not be ready for a decade or more. The researchers can't get anywhere near them, let alone their foals."

"Aren't these the people trained to deal with mutated wolves and prehistoric lions?"

"Yes. No unicorns for us. Not yet, at least. They metabolize the knockout serum very quickly. Two geneticists were gored just a week ago."

It's interesting how invested she gets in this. I scan the form, looking for anything that stands out. No one is certain what mutt Xenia was planning on releasing next, which is partially to blame for Justinion's mistake.

"Well, what's our next goal?" I ask slowly. "We're down to five. I'd suggest a feast, or something to liven things up, but it's such a large arena."

"That _is_ impractical. Besides, we had one last year," Epicure yawns, head leaning slightly to the side.

Justinion laughs. "Demetra's doing a lot of our work for us."

"Can we bring the uncut feed onscreen?" Cinian asks. "I haven't checked in all day. How's everybody doing?"

I press a button under the lip of the carved wooden table, and the wall opposite Cinian becomes a screen. Demetra is talking to herself, and by the way the coverage fixates on that, you can tell that absolutely nothing else is happening, though we get flashes of footage showing Lucian heading back towards the Cornucopia on the steamroller, Lectic sleeping in the unmoving SUV, Dylan's slightly feverish eyes, blinking slowly, and Holland trying to open a bag of chips.

"-I'd like to see you hacks kill Lectic now," Demetra says cheerily. "I'm awfully clever, you've got to admit that."

I chuckle wryly. It would take no convincing for any of the Gamemakers to admit that Demetra is one of the smartest in the arena. She almost always has the camera on herself. The techies like her because they don't have to mess with her voice to make it audible, the crew likes her because she does interesting things, the executives like her because she gets ratings. And of course, tabloids love how controversial she is. Who's going to read about how some heiress is embarrassing herself when you've got Demetra's break from Lectic?

"Has anyone been able to find out any more about her?" I ask, breaking the silence that ensues as Demetra summarizes exactly which ways she is superior to the lot of us.

"The family's got connections in the Capitol, on all sides," Justinion drawls, showing only minutely more interest than usual. "It's not hard to find people who will talk about it."

"Do elaborate," says Epicure, yawning again.

"For one thing, it's not going to be us who kill her, and I wouldn't be surprised if she knows that."

Even Epicure looks up at this.

"Really?" Cinian asks.

"Yes. Her uncle's head of Peacekeeping in District Eleven, but no prizes for guessing who he served with before taking office. Hint: there are over five hundred items in this room that the man in question could use to kill us, including the room itself."

Cinian brings her face down to her palm, groaning.

"Oh no. Why didn't you tell us earlier?" she says, her words muffled by her hand. "I should have known!"

"That's not all. He's her _godfather_."

"Will someone tell me what in Panem's name is going on?" Epicure moans, massaging his temples. "Please, I haven't slept in days, and subtlety is lost on me."

I suddenly put the pieces together.

"This is awful… if word gets out…"

"We'll have quite a few angry families on our hands," Justinion finishes with a smirk. "No one's going to try to take on the President, but I wouldn't fancy any of our chances against, say, the Dietrich girl's family."

"What does the President have to do with _any_ of this?" Epicure asks plaintively.

"I'm not sure whether to hope she loses or wins," Cinian says in a hushed voice. "Who would you prefer angry, the President or all of Panem?"

"This is just too coincidental," I murmur.

"Maybe he _wants_ a rebellion?" Justinion suggests, ever-helpful.

"Oh, shut up," growls Cinian. "You've been supremely useless over the last week and now you've got to bring Norris into this. I've half a mind to send the experimental unicorns after _you_…"

Behind the lull in irate voices, Demetra continues to talk, blissfully unaware of the struggle she is causing from the other side of the screen. She has a very sharp, slightly nasal voice that is difficult to recognize in most other situations.

"Anyway," Cinian finally says, opening her vaguely bloodshot blue eyes with an air of finality and bringing herself to her feet. "I hope the mutts help, Aculeo. I don't think there's much else we can do tonight. I'm sorry I'm so… well, I'm really tired. Sorry. I need to go, now. And I'm not coming back until I've had three consecutive hours of sleep. We could all use it."

Even Justinion fails to challenge her as she stalks from the room. Though normally docile, Cinian's personality has transformed under pressure. Where there was once a flighty, nervous child is currently an adult ready to accept more responsibility than any of us left in the room would have taken on at her age.

I've said it before, but she has the makings of quite a Gamemaker.

The next one to speak is Justinion, muttering sulkily, "Should've put _her_ in the Games."

"Enough of this. We'll meet again tomorrow morning. I'll have some mutts arranged for mutual approval by then. Hopefully, Gamemaker Darcy will see fit to join us. For now, I want you all to take several hours of sleep. Epicure, your wife has likely not seen you in days."

Justinion nods and slumps out with his computer case, most likely rolling his eyes at the incompetence of his elders.

"I meant that, Epicure. How _is_ your wife?" I ask once he is gone.

"Antonia? Oh, well, I'm sure," he says distractedly. "Decius is home from University. They'll be spending time together."

His head is back on the table, and I can see that it is getting more difficult for Epicure to hold his eyes open.

"You should see your son. I'm giving you the day off tomorrow," I say, clapping him on the back.

"Oh no," he says blearily. "We're already understaffed… can't miss a day…"

"You won't be of any help if you're passed out through the meetings. Go home. You heard Cinian. Sleep will do us all good. We'll work out this Norris business once we're fully conscious. We've got enough staff to keep the Games running."

Epicure begins to stumble to his feet, stuffing a stray piece of paper into his briefcase before making his way to the door. I get it for him, knowing exhaustion to be just as potent as alcohol.

What are we going to do about Norris? I contemplate the situation on my drive home. Nothing strikes me. In my exhausted stupor, the only option I can think of is not to intervene. Norris need never know that Justinion learned what he did. Ignorance can be our excuse.

Maybe there's some hidden insight that will occur to me once I rest. I doubt it.

-x-

President Norris leans back in his chair. He watches the Gamemakers as they watch the Games, as he always has. There is no emotion that flickers across his face, no hint of recognition as the discussion turns to him.

Slowly and deliberately, he closes his eyes, still listening to the chatter in the control room.

The Games are really the least of his worries. The twenty-fifth anniversary of the failed rebellion approaches. Most of his Peacekeepers are away securing land for future arenas, and more are scheduled to move out and meet what little resistance has been encountered. His army is weakened. No one knows this, but he recognizes it for the trouble it will surely cause him.

He brings a calloused hand down on the intercom button.

"Claude, please send a notice to the Gamemakers."

As lifelike as if the assistant was speaking from two feet away, the voice responds, "Yes, sir. What would you like it to say?"

"Inform them that the next few deaths ought to be riveting. Otherwise, Gamemaker shortage or not, their own will be the entertainment instead."

"Have a good evening, sir."

His voice has done a fantastic job camouflaging the beginnings of worry building in his chest. Not for his goddaughter, Demetra, who can more than take care of herself, and presents little other than a problem to him.

It is vital that the Games distract Panem from its own vulnerability.

**-x-**

**Eep. Anyway, I'm going to try to pick up the updating pace. Since I'm desperate to write the next few chapters. :3**

_This update's question: _Who would win in a fight, you or Peeta?


	52. Never

**Never**

**Lissom (D10)**

_Come back!_

I walk faster. Don't turn around. Head down, shoulders hunched, arms clenched around my abdomen. I am numb to my own name, hearing it over and over. But I won't turn around. I can't save everyone. I may not even be able to save myself…

_Lissom. Lissom!_

There's a reason I don't let myself care about people. It's hard enough to keep myself alive. Hard enough without getting attached. It's harder to hurt someone once you know their name.

_Please-!_

I won't let that stop me. I will never stop.

Far from typically, I remember my dream in vivid detail. I think the voice might have belonged to someone important. I can't think of whom.

The morning is wet and muggy, the pavement damp and misty. Light flickers eerily through the grey fog. I have about twenty yards of visibility in any direction. Holland walks at my side, breathing slightly labored with fatigue and the heavy air.

We saw the Career boy, last night. The big one. We heard him coming long before we could make out his expression, but it was horrifying when we did. Holland and I were sheltering in the woods, trying to catch a few hours of sleep, when his words began to drift through the still air.

He punctuated all he said with gasps of pain, as though it hurt him to expand his lungs sufficiently to both speak and walk.

"I'll find him… I'm close… I know… it. I know… he's here."

Has the Four boy gone mad?

Yes.

Yes, he has.

I'm glad he passed us. I wouldn't have been able to get both of us out alive, I am certain. Perhaps it is that thought from which my dream was born.

I can't keep us both alive.

Holland taps my arm uncertainly, shaking me from my thoughts.

"What's wrong?" he asks, smiling in a way that is probably supposed to be encouraging. He looks haunted and ill and angry, as though the cloudy day has made him give up his last shred of hope.

My eyes flicker up to the sky, which is downy and grey and moves with an erratic but graceful consistency, like a pot boiling on the stove.

"Nothing. Just worried."

He sighs, a long, empty sound.

"Who's next?"

"That's what I wonder," I murmur. Who is left to track us? Who would are enough, with so many obviously dangerous people running around in plain sight?

I could disappear, in the forest. They would never find me. I'm the smallest in the arena, could reach a high branch on the right tree… at worst, I would die there. But I would have a chance, alone…

I glance to Holland. "How are you holding up?" I ask.

"I've seen better days," he remarks acerbically, his words distant from his meaning. For a second, I am surprised by the change in him. But he has been through a lot, since Skiff died. Maybe it is better that his idealism has been beaten out of him. Maybe it will make things easier.

Of everyone in the arena, I think Holland has fallen the farthest. He was happy, before. How many of us can say we were happy? How many of us stood to lose so much?

The Games have taken away his family. They have taken his district partner, his ally, and they will take his life before this thing is over. No one like Holland wins. If he had been older, stronger, a little more cynical starting out…

Instead, he is broken. Just like the rest of us.

This day is warmer than the last, but I shiver.

Anyone alive so long cannot be wholly intact. We've all seen death. We all know what waits for us if we don't do things… we wouldn't normally do. The arena makes us mad. Slowly but surely.

I'm not excusing anything, least of all the horrible things I've done. But… is living worth it, if it means memories like this?

My feet are numb on the pavement, as they have been since the snow. The only explanation I have as to why they haven't fallen off from frostbite is that the Gamemakers somehow caused wet, cold snow without freezing temperatures. How would that work? All I have are questions.

A tiny drop of rain lands on my bare shoulder, and I tense immediately, still gripping my knife. It's only rain, it's only rain, it's only rain. Holland notices it as well, but he keeps walking.

What would I have to do to get him back?

I… miss having someone prove me wrong about the world. I miss knowing that there was someone truly good just a few feet away. I miss Holland. He looks back, clear blue eyes distant. He has very pretty eyes, but his expression is hollow and nearly frightening as I still expect a round-cheeked smile.

"Holland… do you think you're going to win?" I ask quietly, catching up with some effort.

"No."

"You've… given up, then?"

"That's what it sounds like, doesn't it?"

"Ridiculous. You… you don't give up."

"No, Lissom, that's you. Face it; I'm the useless one, here. Yes, I want to go home. More than anything. But it's _not going to happen_! And I know it!"

I can't contradict him. Does that make me an awful person?

No.

No, it doesn't.

That was when I knew what was coming, but didn't warn Skiff. That was when I let a woman get hanged for something I took, but didn't say a word. I became an awful person when I stopped letting things hurt me.

Karma should have ended me a long time ago.

I stare down at my hands, bony and mottled pink and white. I clutch the knife in my right. The asphalt below me seems unsteady.

Holland trips on his own shoe, backing me up and startling me into full awareness.

"These… don't fit," he says, his voice free of inflection. "I could use a pair of shoes."

"At least you have a pair to begin with," I reply, nearly laughing. I want a pair of shoes, more than just about anything. We've received food. Little things, like cheese and bread and water, just enough to keep us alive. We must have very able sponsors, to recieve so much so late.

Shoes… my feet could be warm again. Holland has small feet for his size. His shoes would fit me.

I can't believe myself, but I also can't believe that I haven't thought it before…

I… I wouldn't risk my life for him. I saved him from the vending machine… but I had my reasons, didn't I? I still needed an ally, didn't I?

Do I need one now?

My mind wanders, unbidden, to the base of his neck. There is a spot, directly between vertebra, where a powerful blow would paralyze him. He would not have to hurt. It would be more like… taking away the pain. I could kill him silently.

It's the heavy sort of day when things feel like they will never change. But I want them to. I want to be alone again. And… and…Hollandis going to be killed either way. I… I might as well… the knife in my hand feels like… like such a good idea…

But this resolve will fade, soon. I can already feel it been… has been…

Under the guise of checking my foot for a sharp rock, I recollect myself and fall behind. My mind has just been… so everywhere, lately. I watch him, from behind, in no real hurry. I want to remember him alive. In case this is a mistake. I don't want to lose him.

…but he's already never coming back. So… in a way… I'm doing the right thing…

I begin to move forward again, eyes on that little notch visible in between vertebrae. If I can sever that, he won't feel a thing, if what I've heard is true… I hope it is.

Really, I don't want to hurt him. But this is for the best. This is for the best.

I raise my knife into position, and allow myself to touch his shoulder as I correct my stance. He stops short, beginning to turn, and I slash the blade with all the strength I can muster at the back of his neck.

The skin is tougher than I expected. Though the force of the blow in between the vertebrae clearly stuns him, he does not fall. A thin line of blood wells up where my knife made contact. Inwardly, I want to scream. This was supposed to be fast!

I throw my weight at him, successfully bringing him to his knees with little resistance. He is shaking violently. But I can't stop. I can't make myself look at him. I draw my arm around his neck, pinning his appendages down with my knees as best I can, and with as much force as I can muster at such an angle, I slam the blade into his throat, bringing it around to make as deep and as long a cut as I can.

What I don't anticipate is the blood.

I must have hit some major artery. Before I can draw my arm back, it is frothing up to my shoulders. He convulses beneath me, and I _just want it to be over._

Again and again, I hack away at his throat, meeting resistance from the trachea, but less, until I hit the other side of his spinal column and realize that I am entirely drenched with blood…

He is still moving. Still choking. Still dying. I scramble to my feet, nearly tripping backwards over a moderately sized silver parcel. I grab it, turn, and run. My feet tear on the harsh road. My eyes search wildly through the fog. I won't turn around.

I can't look back. The canon has not sounded. He is still alive. I could turn around, could apologize, could cry over the mess of blood staining the pavement, but I don't… I can't admit it... I won't say that I was wrong...

I run. Can't stop running, even after I hear the blast, and know that he is dead, and his suffering is over, and I am one step closer to winning.

My hands are slick with blood. His blood. It's everywhere. It's everywhere.

I can win, I can live in the largest house in Victor's Village, I can drown myself in alcohol. But I will never be able to wash this off my hands.

But I won't let that stop me. I will never stop…

**-x**

**This is hereby dedicated to my first friend in the Hunger Games fandom, VividlyVisceral. She's going to be nineteen soon. And I love her.**

**I'd also like to say an enormous thank you to absolutely everyone reading this. You all are amazing.**

_This update's question_: Who do you think will win?


	53. Conscience

**Conscience**

**Demetra (D2)**

The gallon of water is nearly gone, but the climate has been temperate and it should last me a few hours more. Even that, I can't really worry about. I have plenty of sponsors all too eager to throw their money at me, as was evidenced by the amount of food I received after I ran out of chips. It's almost as if separating from Lectic garnered even more support than our alliance itself.

Unfortunately, I don't give a damn what the Capitol thinks, and because of this I'll probably end up hated again by the time I'm on the hovercraft out of the arena.

I've been loathed before. It's not really a big deal. The people who are important enough for their opinions to matter much to me are all related by blood. It's less Lectic I am worrying over then their futures after the Games. District Two has a lot of Victors, and a surprising number of them lack relatives whose deaths they are not eager to talk about.

But Lectic… I know I have bought him time. I know my stunt with the car horn was transparent, that my words will not be lost on the Gamemakers. I have guaranteed his safety until the next time we meet. He is far ahead of any competition that could do him harm, and no mutt that could truly endanger him will be wasted when there is so much more drama… so much more intrigue…

…if it is me who kills him…

…and it will have to be me…

…if I want to go home…

I do want to win. I want to go home to my house, to see my family again, to know that I have done what I have been trained for and to finally feel like I am worth something to the household. I know they love me, and I know I love them, but if I die, it will be Celer next, and he is not as strong as I am. My parents will… I don't know. But knowing that, as I die they will be watching is more than sufficient motivation to live.

Even if Lectic has to die. Even if I have to kill him. Knowing that he is gone. I… I think that I will be able to do it. And there is nothing else that I _can_ think without betraying the morality that I have always known.

I realize that I have not been talking, so I manipulate my expression back into a knowing smirk.

"So, what are we doing? I figure you've run out of mutts by now… though we all know that you've got a big one for the final three. Always do. I'm headed towards someone now, aren't I? Of course I am. Oh, I hope it's Lucian. I could use a challenge."

Yesterday, I set a tree on fire when I noticed a large nest swinging from an upper branch. It was quite satisfactory, and I managed to run before any of the wasps – they were most likely muttations, but I'm not going to make any assumptions – found me out. Those could have been dangerous, and the resulting smoke should serve the double purpose of sedating any remaining nests and attracting my competitors.

On the flip side, it depleted my flamethrower. By which I mean it is almost entirely empty. By which I mean it is a particularly cumbersome chunk of metal and plastic tied to my back. I'm heading towards the gas station, but I've never been very good at judging distance.

I managed to get both myself and Celer lost on the way to the training center for the recruitment fair. We were both much younger than most of the applicants, but exceptions had been made for us because of my mom's position of influence coupled with our decent showing at the in-school visit a few weeks beforehand.

I was five, he was a month away from four. We could have been forgiven, but I really didn't want to risk being identified as late to the fair.

Because I can't do anything by halves, I ended up pushing my way through a group of mostly seven and eight year olds who had been selected for their potential towards murder with the same brusque and irritating condescension that I so enjoy to this day. I was a precocious child.

That was ultimately what got us both enrolled, I would imagine. Celer, who was never much of a talker, pressed up against my back, about half a foot shorter than me even then, both of us among the smallest in the center. Me with narrowed eyes and a rapidly swelling lump on my jaw, seconds away from launching myself at the throat of a girl who had punched me as I pushed past her.

Her name was Pictrix. She died in the Games three years ago. I never liked her.

But we were in. Miles ahead of the rest by the time there were kids our age being recruited. It was good for my mother, I assume, to have children showing ability in the areas she taught. My father took issue with it as first, but even he could not deny that both of us had talent.

Especially me, of course.

Celer is often in the position of defending me verbally, while I take a more physical approach if he is threatened. We watch out for each other. I tend to make things worse by talking, while he is able to remedy hurt feelings and, more often than not, avoid a fight.

I've never been good at 'humility' or 'modesty' or 'acceptance' or 'admitting the other person is right when they obviously are'.

What the hell, I'm obviously still alive. Who cares, as long as it works?

Unconsciously, I have begun to hum a song I heard in the Capitol. I don't know any of the words, but I occasionally feel one or two coming back to me.

"Hmmm hmm, hmm next to you… hm hm I'm hmmmmm…"

Footsteps.

I immediately stop my muddled vocalization, first reaching for my flamethrower, then stopping myself and adjusting myself into a crouch.

Definitely someone. I look into the distance, realizing I've walked farther than I thought. I'm coming up on the elegant bridge that Lectic and I crossed before in the snow. My stomach lurches, and I slide back into a position to move. I can't see whoever is approaching over the curve of the bridge, though they are making a lot of noise, taking no care to disguise their pounding footsteps.

If I do not move quickly, they will see me first, in this orange jumpsuit.

Lowering my head, I sprint forwards, focusing on keeping my footfalls as quiet as possible. They are still noticeable, but it is likely that the other person is not listening as carefully as I have been trained to. My boots are fairly heavy, especially the toes, but I manage fairly well. I was always good at running.

The other person has stopped. There is the hollow sound of air whistling through the cables of the arching bridge.

I reach the highest point of the bridge only to find myself about twenty yards from Dylan.

He's a wreck. I nearly laugh. It is obvious why he stopped running.

Dylan looks as though he's been run over by a car. He is leaning heavily on a spar of pale wood, his head hanging down. He hasn't seen me. His free arm is clenched to his chest. What I can see of his face is contorted in pain.

If my flamethrower was working, I could kill him with almost no effort. But I notice that his crude walking stick is sharp at the end – a spear. I am comparatively unarmed. Maybe…

…if I can make him throw it…

"So, Dylan!" I say casually, as if I am seeing an old friend after several months. "How's the arena been treating you?"

With an air of relaxation, I lean on the railing of the bridge.

He groans.

"Not _you_…"

"Oh, my. I'm wounded. That really hurt my feelings. I haven't said anything remotely offensive!" There is an unspoken 'yet' that I can see he clearly registers.

Dylan straightens. It hurts him more than he lets on. I zero in on the area that is causing him pain. Something in his chest is hurting him. A rib, I would guess. His mouth is a thin line of repressed pain.

"I know exactly what you're doing," he says, his voice heavy. "You aren't worth my time. I'm not going to waste this on your type."

"_Harsh_!" I say, grinning. This is what I live for. A moment where my talent for provocation will be useful. Where being impervious to criticism is a positive thing. "Out of curiosity, what type am I? I've always found that I defy categorization."

By the look in his eyes, he already regrets engaging. But I also see anger smoldering in his expression, and know that I have caught him. He is too far gone to let this go. Too easy.

"You prey on the hurting. The people who are too young to fight back, too weak, too scared. You are a terrible person."

I look up in surprise.

"Thank you! You know, Dylan, I never would have pegged you as the flattering type. What is it you want?"

His mouth tightens, almost invisible now.

"They teach us about this. It's surprising how often you District Twos revert to this."

"They obviously don't teach you how to do it properly, though. District insults? _Really_?"

"I guess cruelty doesn't come as naturally to me," he says coldly.

"And it's a shame. This is getting dull. Are you going to kill me, or not?" I pretend to examine my nails, which are fairly grimy. I haven't had the chance to wash my hands lately.

"We both know it's not going to go down like that."

"Of course not."

He's taking deep breaths, wincing in pain as his ribcage is disturbed. I watch carefully for which one is out of place, but realize he is using the pain to calm himself, which is the opposite of what I want.

"What happened to Diele, anyway? She was reasonable. Did you get tired of her?"

Dylan's eyes snap open, then narrow with rage.

"You… you…"

"Run her through with that little spear of yours? You always acted like such a gentleman, too. And you're telling _me_ I'm terrible!"

Of course he didn't kill her. I have doubts that Dylan has killed even once since the bloodbath. Of course, neither have I. I'll have to get right on it! A laugh springs unbidden from my lips. I'm going to kill someone! It seems funny, the turn this day has taken. Once he's gone, there will be only three people left to kill! Only one of them capable of killing _me_!

"Shut up," he growls. "_Shut the hell up_!"

"I don't think I can do that, Dylan. I've got so much to tell you!"

He's doing that calming-breaths thing again, which annoys me. I'm not doing my job properly if he's able to breathe a little and feel better. But it looks as if it isn't working. His face is just getting redder.

I smirk.

"You're the only one from District Four left… how does that feel? I can't really blame you for snapping."

"I… didn't… snap…"

"Oh, but you will-!"

I can be truly infuriating when I want to be. I took for granted how easy it was to get Lectic off balance. Dylan is presenting more of a challenge than I expected. He has been controlling himself for a long time. And he must have been expecting me to do this, when we eventually met.

"You know what your problem is? You don't care about the people you've killed. And that's bad. _Really_ bad!"

"I thought I told you to _shut up_!"

"And that temper. You'll need to work on it. How did Diele manage to stand you for so long?"

This finally breaks his resolve. He walks towards me, face a mask of calm. Not throwing the spear, but holding it as a stabbing implement. I curse inwardly. But at least the tension has been ended. He is seething mad, confident in his superior size and armament. I am uninjured, though, and built more solidly than I look. Without the spear, we would be more than evenly matched.

Also, I have the feeling that even as angry as he is now, Dylan is an honorable fighter. He has more than announced his intentions, given me time to react.

There will be no such opportunities for him.

Dylan moves more quickly, covering the last yard in between us with spear raised. He does not let it escape his grip, and I am confident he will not. It is aimed directly at my solar plexus.

With seconds to spare, I spin to his right, knowing my movement will be more difficult to follow. I catch his wrist, meaning to twist it until he drops the weapon, but his lower arm is too thick for me to close my hand, and he breaks away easily. I grimace as the butt of the crude spear knocks sharply into my chest with the motion, though it misses anything sensitive and vital.

I am still backed up against the railing, so I spin again. He is now closer to the rail, and he has to turn again to stab at me, pressing his own back to the edge.

With a smile, I am on the offensive, aiming a false jab at his nose with my left hand, which he blocks with the wooden spar, leaving his left side exposed. I clench my right hand to a tight fist and drive it into the area that I can best approximate is broken with as much force as I have in my arm.

He stumbles back, gasping in pain, and I grab his wrist with both hands, kicking his left shin as hard as I can to further distract him from his grip. He struggles to recover from the blow to his midsection still, and I pin his arm to the railing with my full weight. With a blow that jars my arm, I smash the splintered weapon from his hand and send it into the ocean before I can react and grab it for myself.

As I close my eyes briefly in disdain for gravity, his free hand closes around my throat. I gouge his hand deeply, blood welling up where I scratch him in desperation for air. He is stronger than me, pushes me backwards where I hit the pavement, trying to find my feet.

I am dizzy from the lack of oxygen, but he is still recovering as well.

Of course, if he were on the ground, I would be kicking him with these excellent boots, broken rib or not. He is also in a very good position to crush my throat. Mystifyingly, he bends over to help me up.

"I won't kill someone on the ground," he says through gritted teeth.

"Pansy," I laugh, taking his hand and dragging him down with me. I roll on top of him in his confusion, pinning his arms to the ground and grinding my knee into his broken rib to buy some time.

Wish I knew what went down to make him so reluctant to kill someone… even me… in a position of vulnerability. Maybe it's just who he is. But why the hell did they let him volunteer, then?

I lean in close, my face inches from his.

"Dylan," I say softly. "You are an overly chivalrous idiot, and I have no idea how you made it this far. But I know you didn't kill Diele. I know who did. And don't worry. Lucian will die. I won't let him win."

"You're going to hell," he says sadly, though I see relief in his eyes.

"I'll meet you there," I reply, with a cheerfulness I do not fully feel.

In a single fluid motion, I am standing over him.

"It's been fun, Dylan."

"You're a bitch, Demetra."

I bring down my foot on his throat with all of my weight.

"Yeah," I murmur. "I know."

**-x-**

**I'm trying to bring this to a close before November... don't know how well that will work. In any case, I would like to take this moment to express my profound love for the human race, particularly those reading these words. Thank you for making me all I am today.**

_This update's question:_ Which of the remaining four would you be saddest to see die?


	54. Intention

**Intention**

**Lectic (D3)**

It is still warm, but not unbearably so. The air is drier and has a different taste- less of decomposition and ozone from the last rainfall, more of new air. A breeze sweeping in from the west carries with it the taste of drying leaves and an afterthought of wood smoke.

The only visible sign that the seasons are changing is the coloration of the trees and creepers. Their verdance has dulled to a matte olive, painted haphazardly with gold.

For the first time in weeks, I feel almost at peace. Of course, it only takes seconds for that to be shot entirely to hell. This is the arena, not District Three in autumn, and I am long overdue for some trouble. The last few days have been far too quiet, at least for me.

A day ago, the boy from Eight died. I don't know how. I don't even remember his name, or much from his interview, besides the fact that he gave me a strong impression of idealism. I honestly hope that Demetra had nothing to do with his death. I think I would have liked him. God knows I could use some optimistic company. I still have a difficult time looking at the empty seat next to me. Demetra could be horrible, but I _miss _her.

Now that I am alone, my mind has more time to wander, which can be both good and bad. There was another cannon earlier today.

All I can wonder is whether or not it was her.

The scenery I pass is beautiful, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

Even these last few days, as time flows like molasses around me, this is better than District Three. People are dying here, but they are dying back at home, as well. And I've been strangely removed from it all, so far. Since the bloodbath, I have not seen a person die. Call it selective memory, but I can barely feel anything, even from those horrors. The people in the sky are faces, and though I feel pain for them… I don't see them as humans. I don't see them as dead. They're only pictures.

But this is better than District Three.

I could not harm myself, now. No matter how I wish to subtract myself from the situation, knowing that death will find me sooner or later… this is better… this is better than District Three. Because here, I want to keep living even more than I want to stop hurting.

Maybe things would be different, if I was back, knowing what I do now. There are options. I have choices. But I'm never going back.

I miss vegetables the most. Honestly, I know there will be people who scoff at this, say I have it good, say I haven't had to kill an animal or identify a plant, and should be grateful… but if by some freak accident I make it out of here alive, I will never eat a sticky bun or potato chip for as long as I live.

My stomach feels hollow at the mention of food. With a sigh, I reach back, rip open a pack of vibrantly chartreuse stick gum, and begin to chew a piece. It's more to give my mouth something to do than anything else. I just can't stand the thought of more salt at the moment.

After just a few moments of calm, my eyes are back on the horizon and my mind is back where it shouldn't be.

I'm sure Demetra is doing better without my. Why worry for her safety? She's probably gone after the most threatening competitor and killed him… of course, it must be a him. The only other girl in the arena is the youngest out of everyone reaped. She scored fairly high, though. Higher than me? I can't remember. It doesn't matter. Not as if I'm the standard of strength and fortitude.

Maybe it was her who died.

They probably like that girl, in the Districts. She's not unattractive, and though she is very young, I got no impression of youth from her. Very small, too. Just a child, but not _just _a child. Very confusing.

I wonder if she has met Demetra yet. Despite the smaller girl's dedication to knife work during training, I cannot imagine her coming out of that confrontation alive… though stranger things have happened. I'm still here, aren't I?

The clock on the dashboard reads '5:21'. The sun is beginning to sink lower. I have to squint to keep my eyes open.

It must be hallucination – heat bouncing off the pavement, some aftereffect of the Gamemakers' weather manipulation – but that line in the distance that I have been watching so carefully begins to waver. The horizon is shaking.

As I slow the car, I begin to feel it, too.

Something shakes the arena, from hundreds of feet below me. At first, I try to rationalize it as I did the shuddering landscape in the distance. Could something be wrong with the car?

The lovely yellow leaves, so innocuous on their bows, begin to ripple with the force of the ground's convulsions. Some are shaken to the ground, falling slowly in the windless air. As the tremors increase, I have the strange impression that the trees are melting.

Another shudder passes through the arena, stronger this time. I slow the car, still not fully sure how to react. Because I am not applying the brakes, the car drifts slowly forward, still lost in its own momentum.

This is clearly on a natural occurrence. The irregularity and power of the quakes does not mimic what I've experienced in District Three, where we are almost guaranteed a perceptible earthquake every few months. Our buildings are made to withstand such things, and I have weathered a good few of them in school. It's a hundred times worse in the car.

Even stronger, a third shudder beneath the car makes me wish fervently to be back at home, surrounded by my friends, on-edge about the predicted quake but not exactly scared.

What I am feeling now is fear. I have the sudden thought that the arena is hundreds of feet in the air. If the end begins to crumble… it does seem structurally improbable, at best… it would be better for me not to be in the car. But the car can move faster than I can run. I keep rolling forward, unwilling to make a decision that could likely lead to my death.

Looking ahead frantically, I see something that makes me double-take, even as the earth dances beneath me. The horizon has ended. I can see past it. Maybe a half-mile in the distance… the road comes to a stop.

For a second, I stare, convinced that I am seeing some sort of illusion. The end of the arena… which should, by all rights, be stationary… is moving. Towards me.

The car begins to hum like a computer warming up, but I can't look away. It's almost beautiful.

Sunset colors the sky with deep gashes of red and pink, the light spilling through golden-orange clouds. It's as if I'm looking at a painting, the buttery light descending over the precipice, which inches slowly towards me. There is no sound of crumbling, apart from the distinct groan of the arena trying valiantly to stay together as some outside force tears at it from within.

I can't delay any longer. Past the advancing drop, I can see the ground is littered with enormous, jagged boulders that from my vantage point look like clawed fingers reaching out from the earth.

I won't just wait for death.

Slowly, cautiously, I step down on the gas pedal. I mean to turn slowly, to face away from impending death. It sounds awfully cowardly. I don't care.

When I let my foot meet the resistance of the pedal, though, I know instantly that something more is wrong. Something has happened to my engine. Something _good_. With a force I am not expecting, the car lurches forward. It doesn't take too long for me to adjust to it, and after some speedy trial and error, I have positioned the car so that it is pointing towards the Cornucopia, probably over a hundred miles away.

Taking a deep breath, I floor the gas. I need to get out of here. The tremors are stronger. Maybe if I can get far enough away, I can be safe.

I am sent flying forward like a bullet from a gun, accelerating with a speed I would have thought impossible for the car a few minutes ago. I nearly laugh. Demetra would love this. The speedometer climbs swiftly to eighty, then up and up and up… I have to remind myself not to go too fast. But it is so exhilarating.

The Gamemakers want me alive. I don't know why, but they did not want me to meet my end over the edge of the arena. Probably planning something truly, gut-wrenchingly awful. _I don't care._ I'm alive. Everything but death is negotiable.

Such speed is much less monotonous than my previous pace.

I still feel the groans and spasms of the earth beneath me, but I am too absorbed in the mechanics of the recent automotive development to take much notice. All this time, they must have had control over the maximum speed of the car. It wasn't the small engine – of course not – but a conscious desire on the part of the Gamemakers.

That makes me feel quite a bit better about my lack of success in adjusting the speed.

After an hour or so, I pass the rest stop. It dulls my excitement at the newfound power of the large, black sedan. My mind is back on Demetra. The pictures in the sky will appear soon. I will know, then, if she is still alive. But I really should not be worried.

Based on everything I know about her, Demetra does not die easily. What would kill me might stop her for a few seconds, just long enough for her to toss off a pithy one-liner before kicking your teeth in.

I would not want to face her in any sort of combat. On my few stops, I have practiced with the branch she gave me. I am abysmally weak. However, since the arena, I have noticed a definite change in my body type. I was a shaky bag of bones with a little skin holding me together just enough to function. I could not walk much more than a mile.

What little protein I have gleaned from my diet of over processed food has been immediately consumed by my metabolism, leaving only residual sinew to keep me moving and functioning. But it _is_ a change. Even with my hair growing back, I don't feel like myself. I feel stronger.

That can't be common in the arena, where surely most of us are not getting enough to eat. But besides my wounds – the hole in my hand from where the walking bird's beak pierced me that has yet to do much in the way of healing, the claw marks that have only tentatively begun to scab over – I am in better physical condition than I was before.

Amazing what a taste of hell will do for you.

It's obvious, now, what the Gamemakers were thinking. I had gone far enough from the action. In the final four, they don't want the mutts to be the ones doing us in. The audience prefers to see the tributes they have developed close, unreciprocated emotional ties with kill the _other_ tributes they have developed close, unreciprocated emotional ties with. It's dramatic that way.

Knowing this, Demetra is going to end up killing me.

Might as well trust my death to an expert, though.

The Capitol's anthem plays, and the seal lights up the sky, changing to a face I recognize, but vaguely, accompanied by a '4'.

The Career boy from Four, obviously. Demetra hated him with a passion. I can't tell why from his face, which is not terribly exceptional. His hair is bleached a golden blond, suggesting he was auburn-haired before exposure to the sun. His face is fairly kind, for a Career.

He and Demetra are nearly physical opposites, save for their height. If it weren't for her hair, he would be about three inches taller. She is sharp featured, with bold brows, angular eyes, and a mouth that curls easily into a smirk. This boy, whom I have little doubt she killed, is softer. His features fade into a deep tan, his eyes blue-green and unblinking in the picture.

The District Four boy is dead.

I try to make myself feel bad for him.

Even after my time with Demetra, I can't bring myself to accept him as a trained killer _and_ a person. In the same way that a fire that keeps you warm is still a fire, she is still a Career even though I would count her as my friend. The District Four boy is even less human to me. He never had the opportunity to validate himself in my eyes in any measure.

They are human, the Careers. But in my head, I have a hard time associating the words.

A full century of hatred will do that to you.

It's shocking just how quickly the car is moving. But for the Capitol train, I have never been propelled forward with greater speed. The speedometer hovers around '120', occasionally bobbing upwards and straying back down.

Compared with my earlier pace… I should be at the Cornucopia in a matter of hours. Many hours. But all the same, it is doubtful that the rest of the tributes are that far away. We've all been setting out for the end of the road. I was the only one to complete the journey.

We were moving towards nothing this entire time. Or maybe there was something, at the end of the road. Maybe they grew tired of waiting for us to reach it.

It's got to be a metaphor for _something_, but I'm fairly tired from the events of the day. The earth is calmer, now, though it still rumbles uncomfortably. Yellow leaves are strewn all through the street, and they jump slightly, like a self-aware golden carpet, at the slightest tremor.

Now that Demetra is gone, I wonder if I have any sponsors. The Careers always get the mother lode, so it's likely that interest in me has dropped off since she pulled the stunt with the car.

If I make it home, would the people of District Three feel anything but contempt for me? We're not exactly fans of the Games. We've had only one victor since the 75th, and all those from previously were killed at some point or another.

Our current mentor is a youngish woman named Filamence. She was from the richer part of District Three. Like all of us, she didn't win with any prodigious physical skill, though she was capable and well-fed. She speaks very quickly, and though her eyes are a deep brown that approaches black, they shine with a spark of life one doesn't often see in victors.

Fil is remarkably smart, but in more of a social way. People don't think of her as a threat, with her high-pitched, semi-constant speaking. She isn't all that physically attractive by Capitol standards. She had a knack for making friends with the right people, and was fairly handy with a knife.

She doesn't like to talk about the Games. I get the sense that the reason she is so happy is that she pretends they do not exist.

Yet another reason why winning isn't my favorite option. I can remember something horrible to the Capitol and back, dwell on it as I wake up in the mornings, dream of it as I sleep at night.

Another hour later, I hit a bridge. There's something familiar about the tapering silver beams and wires, but it's only once I've passed it that I remember, with a feeling as if my stomach has knotted, that the last time I was there, I was with Demetra. It was covered in ice, still a beautiful exhibition of engineering.

I want to slow down and go back. For the first time since the car revealed its hidden usefulness, I ease onto the break.

Even that gentle pressure sends it slamming to the floor of the car.

Abruptly, I go from enjoying the speed to fearing that there will be some obstruction in the road. It was three lanes a while back, but I have little room to swerve now. I take a moment to breathe. To stop and think.

My foot is already off the gas pedal, but it will take a lot to slow me down with the kind of speed the car has built up. I take the steering wheel, gritting my teeth and testing the muscle in my arms. Slowly, carefully, I swerve towards the median. I'm only about of foot away from the little raised piece of concrete.

I ease further towards it, as if I am parallel parking. I feel a jolt at the wheel grazes the median, but cling grimly to the wheel, bumping again and again, really just brushing at the six-inch partition.

The speedometer eases down to ninety. How much longer can I get away with travelling so fast? So far, I've been lucky.

Something orange appears to be hurtling towards me because of the car's speed. I wrench the wheel to the left, scraping into the median in one long, ear-wrenching screech of hubcaps on concrete. There is a little metal barrier, near the orange shape, that will hopefully slow me further.

I squint into the distance, blinking rapidly. It's hard to see in the darkness, but-

No.

It's a person.

Demetra.

I can't hit Demetra.

Why is she in the middle of the road? Damn it!

I smash my fist into the horn, but she has been opening some sort of silver parcel ('_sponsor gift_,' says my subconscious) and is standing in the middle of the road. The vibrations running through the earth must have disguised my arrival.

She looks up when I am only twenty yards away, and the impact on the metal railing sends me fishtailing towards her.

_I am not going to hit Demetra._

My eyes narrow briefly, and it feels like time has slowed. I smash the gas pedal down, effectively destroying all of the last few minutes progress in slowing. It gives me the force I need to spin the wheel to the right with everything I have.

I… I _think_ I missed her… I can't tell…

The car keeps moving. The driver's side, still spinning like a top about to fall, slams into a huge oak covered in some sort of vine. I have the vague hope that it will cushion my impact, though it is entirely irrational.

My neck surely must have snapped from the force. There is a bag covering my nose and mouth, but I can't move to breathe. I register a heavy, wet warmth trickling down my temple.

Someone is screaming. An explosive noise that I barely hear as the window breaks, glass shards flying inwards. The bag is being ripped away.

"Lectic! LECTIC! _GET UP_! _GET UP, DAMN IT_!"

I can't even manage a groan to tell the unseen voice that I can't.

It's very dark.

There is a hand at my face.

But then there isn't anything.

**-x**

**Las apariencias engañan.**


	55. Mental

**Mental**

**Lissom (D10)**

This is a road. Straight. Silent. The trembling in the ground has slowly lessoned into the occasional murmur. Quiet, still, serene. The yellow and orange leaves that fell during the tremors are lovely, a tessellating pattern of gold on gold that blurs the line between forest and road.

I don't feel it beneath me. I don't see the leaves. All I can feel is numb. All I can do is to raise one foot after another, keeping my eyes locked on the horizon.

My thoughts are slippery with blood. It's all I can smell. I still taste copper each time I swallow. The pain isn't gone, but all the same, I don't feel it anymore. Just numb. Just empty. So empty. The crushing vacuum of emotion is heavy and hard to bear.

When I look down, I see my arms painted with dried blood. I haven't had the heart to try to clean it off. I vomited bile the first time I tried. The smell gets stronger as it flakes off.

I am the most miserable person in the world. But I deserve this hollow feeling. I make no effort to shake it. Foot after foot, I am walking to the Cornucopia. Whatever or whoever is there can take a go at me, if they like. The only thing that keeps me walking is the reason why I did it, killed him… so I could win. And just like that, I have to. Or what I did goes from terrible to unforgivable.

Hell, I'm a killer now. Why not add to the body count. I can't feel worse than this. I'm barely standing up. When my hand brushes my hip bone, I find it jutting out several centimeters from my waist. Skin and bones, held together only with my unwillingness to let myself fall apart at the seams. Holland already gave his life for this. I won't let that be a waste.

This is a road. I chose it, if that makes any sense. Things seem funny and red and hazy but I have to keep walking. It's not just the road they gave me; it's the road I took. And each step burns at the soles of my feet, though the air hangs still and cool.

Sometimes my mind seems clearer than others. I wonder if this is happening to everyone. All the regret that comes with living and killing but it's for living, it's to stay alive so it's not my fault but it is it is it is I kill and I keep killing and they won't let me stop until everyone is dead. Everyone has to die. Can't stop at two. Got to keep killing.

If I don't… if I don't win, then it's a waste. I don't waste. I don't waste. Not something as valuable as life. Even if he didn't want it.

Walking walking walking knife in my hand eyes on the horizon walking walking walking. Can't stop now. Can't stop until it's done. Everyone has to be dead. Can't stop now.

I smell blood. So much blood. Dried on my skin, pulsing through my body. The air is so still, I can feel it. Keep going. Keep going. Eyes forward. How long has it been since I blinked? My eyes sting. It's getting dark. Or I'm passing out. Not sure which. Feet still moving so I think it's just late.

I'm just tired. Really tired.

Wishing I was dead. Just a little. So much responsibility for all these lives I've taken. It's more than just me. I can give up on me, but not on them. Not on them. No time to sleep. Keep walking. Keep walking. Keep walking.

When I think back to the beginning, before this whole mess got tangled and wet and sticky – I smell blood, I smell it, it's hanging all around me on my skin on my skin on my skin can't get it off – I almost laugh, for a second. Right before the plate lifted.

I told myself not to fall. I told myself I could do this, all of this, if I could keep running, keep running on a straight path without falling. Somewhere, a while back, I tripped. And I'm not sure when it was, since my brain is trying to blur those memories, make them a bad dream I had that will be over soon.

Death would have been so easy. I wish I hadn't fought when Auroch caught me there. Let him hurt me, break my back, end it before the real pain would start.

Back when death was an option, I should have taken it. I wonder how many others are thinking the same thoughts, right now.

I bet that Lectic is. The Careers, I wouldn't bet a penny on their remorse. I've seen them feel nothing for years, kill and feel nothing, survive and feel nothing. Empty bodies. I don't think I could feel any worse, to have their deaths on my hands. But the District boy, last one besides me… he's the one I don't want to kill.

The idea of fighting him doesn't scare me. Hurting so much, so long, I'm not scared of anything he could do. It's the idea of killing someone who hasn't stopped fighting that frightens me.

I'll eventually be able to justify Holland's death – already, I say 'death' as though he is long gone instead of still staining my skin – because he had given up.

I find myself slipping to the left, into the foliage where I feel marginally safer. My senses are dull as a calf's budding horn from lack of sleep. How many days? How long has it been?

With me hidden safely behind a curtain of thick, green vines, something speeds by, too fast to be a normal creature. Mutt or vehicle? In the distance, I hear the scraping of metal, the blast of a car horn, which I heard often in the Capitol, and the end of an echoing scream, filled with some emotion… I can't pick it up, I find myself on my knees, stumbling further, digging my elbows into the ground to keep myself from falling over entirely.

The distant voice is screaming, screaming, echoing all the way to my hiding place. I wonder what has happened, but my mind is shot with exhaustion and pain – mental and physical – which has caught up with me after running from it all for so long.

I don't hear a cannon, which tells me there is at least one live person within a mile. It's as if we're being herded back together, now that there are only four tributes in the arena. Maybe three, soon.

Between full-body convulsions, I crawl beneath a giant tree, lifted as if on a pedestal by twirling roots that bend like spider legs. Four more in the arena. Three more to kill. Just three more. Just three more. With my limbs growing heavier by the second, I curl into the fetal position, surrounding myself with pine needles for camouflage.

I'll be safe for a few hours. Few hours to sleep. Before I have to kill again. And again. Three more. Just three more.

_Just three more._

-x

**Lucian (D2)**

I can feel the arena shrinking. The air is more open, the breeze more pronounced, if only a trace. I'm only a few miles from at least one tribute; I speak only from experience, though. Tribute or mutt, I'll need to fight soon.

Good thing. Sponsor money isn't going as far as it used to, and I'm down to a semi-daily ration of bread, cheese, and dried meat.

Yes, I can feel the earth beneath me shifting. Still restless after the harsh tremors tearing through it what must have been hours ago. We are ants in a jar, being shaken. I can only conclude that the Gamemakers want us to fight.

It's a shame. I've been enjoying the relative solitude of the open road. It took only eighteen deaths for me to feel some kind of serenity. There will be more. And they will be worth it.

I find something unusual, as my train of thought slides towards more killing; I feel anticipation. Which is odd. I wouldn't say I enjoy killing, not like watching ants or spending time alone. I search my thoughts and find nothing unusual save the strange… I wouldn't call it eagerness. And I know it has nothing to do with the thought of leaving the arena.

Things are easier, here. I like the clean-cut simplicity that comes with a complete lack of government but for the natural consequences for my actions. And haven't I dealt with those? I'm perfectly ready to face anything the arena, the Gamemakers, or my competitors can inflict.

Competitors… that sparks some memory that rationalizes my mentality. Demetra is alive. She is really the only competition left…

She made me uncomfortable from the beginning. In a way, she represents every difficulty I have with people. She acts randomly and violently, she is spiteful and rude and impossible to get along with. She speaks much too loudly, and when she does, she calls me 'Lucy'.

My mother calls me Lucy.

I think I will enjoy killing Demetra. While she is a threatening competitor, I have killed a lot of those. If she puts up more of a fight, and I am almost certain she will, it will only serve to interest me. I want to see how she dies.

By now, I can't even hope to understand people. But I can try. Just as the Gamemakers are watching us, I will watch my opposition.

Beyond Demetra, I see only a starving girl and a boy with unusually good luck.

The truth is that I am happy in the arena. That won't stop me from leaving it. I intend to win these Games, and I am certain that I can.

Slowly, the steamroller pushes forward. I will get there, wherever 'there' is. I think that once I find Demetra, this will end for good. I have no problem taking my time with that. My gun sits, loaded and ready, next to my seat.

I don't mind killing at a distance. There are people in my district who doubtless think me cowardly for not engaging physically. But why not take the advantage I am given? I shoot to kill, not to wound. I don't hate the people I kill. Not even Demetra. The human factor, the same irritating irrationality that makes my life difficult, adds an element of entertainment to the Games. No one wants victory to come too easily.

I wonder if she thinks the same way I do. Demetra. I like to think she doesn't. We're opposites, enemies, entirely different people. In the end, if I die, it will be her who kills me. I don't want that to happen. So I'll kill her first.

Much less complicated than back in District Two. Kill or be killed. Simple as that. It's a formula that works for me, because I am an effective killer. There are two in the arena who were not born to do this, and two that were.

In the end, it's me and her. One who lives and one who dies. It's not about honor or fame or money, it's who is holding the gun. Right now, that's me.

My fingers close on the weapon, feel that minutiae of slack on the trigger. It's a good gun. I am going to shoot Demetra with it, and the others if I need to.

Only three more. And only one that matters.

**-x**

**Hello, you. It's been a long, long time since I posted- but I have a laptop I can use now, and I'm steadily reducing my narcotics dosage, which gives me a clearer head. I've missed you all very much. Look forward to a visit with Lectic and Demetra next update.**

**Special thanks to Paige for taking a look at this for me. Love to all of you.**


	56. Saudade

**Saudade**

**Demetra (D2)**

My mind has gone utterly blank. I _know_ that I know what to do, here. But after the initial shock of seeing him so goddamn _still_ I haven't been able to regain my footing. I ripped the airbag apart, stabilized his head, reclined the chair as far as it would go, checked for broken ribs, for any injuries aside from the obvious – but what the hell do I do now?

He's so limp, like a child's ragdoll thrown carelessly to the ground, just happening to land in the smashed shell of an SUV. There's a bruise to his forehead that looks dangerous, blood welling up in his nose.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I've got no trouble breaking someone's neck when they're on the ground. I set two people on fire and I watched them burn until they died. My lip is split practically to my chin, and I don't give a damn about any of it. This is what I've been trained to do, to deal with. _Why can't I kill him_. It's not even a matter of physical ability- god, I wish it was! I could walk over there and kill him with one hand, and he wouldn't know it.

So how does it make sense, me sitting here on the median and staring at him, unconscious, extremely unlikely to wake up at all. He wouldn't want to slip away. But he wouldn't want me to lose hope so early – why do I even give a damn what he thinks? He's the one sleeping off a major head injury that he could have avoided… it would have been just as easy… easier… to kill me.

And I think that's it. My little morality pet has grown on me like a particularly clever and mildly attractive tumor. Damn it. His random topics of conversation and his morbid sense of humor – if I hadn't been the one to go to him in the first place, I would think he planned this all from the beginning. In fact, I'm blaming him anyway, for this whole damn mess.

Somewhere, my mother is beating her head against a wall. All the same… is it really worse that he took the hit rather than me? It's better… I have to think it's better, and I have to believe he thinks that too. Or would. Would think, if he wasn't dying. Wasn't going to die all along. I should have seen this. It's happened before, but it's never gone this _far_.

Career and district kid seems like a horrible combination, but it's happened. People don't usually remember, because the kid usually dies, and the Career does something stupid, tries for revenge or just plain stops thinking straight.

Well, that's not me. They aren't me. I got us – myself, I mean – here. And I'm going to get me out.

I walk back to the car, look at him again. I lean in with my sleeve to wipe some of the blood off his face; his nose refuses to stop, slowly oozing dark blood down his cheek.

When I touch his face, Lectic's eyes flicker open and I momentarily consider shrieking. They close again, and I draw back, confused.

"Lectic," I say slowly, "This isn't a good time for a joke. I will break your goddamn nose if it isn't already. If you can open your eyes, do it."

His eyelashes flutter again, and my heart races – I'm ready to kill, or run – the adrenaline in my system is telling me to pick fast.

"Keep your eyes open, if you can," I say in the same measured tone. "Look me in the eye."

In the end, I have to hold his eyes open, other hand keeping his head steady, which he can't seem to do on his own. In the evening light, I think I can discern a slight difference in the size of his pupils.

"Very nice, Lectic," I groan. "You're concussed."

I slide my hand down his back, feeling for any obvious consequences of the crash. He continues to stir at my touch, and though his eyes water when I check his cervical vertebrae, nothing seems obviously wrong. I hope I'm not forgetting anything, but I want to get him out of the car.

Slowly, I adjust the weight of his head to my shoulder, slipping one arm down to support his legs. I lift him free of the wreck, and though I hear him suppress a noise of pain, nothing seems obviously wrong as I lay him on the pavement. He is more conscious now, but his lip has started to bleed where he bites it.

Dipping some old paper from the rest area in a little water, I clean the blood from his face, trying to be gentle around the bruised area that has swollen outward slightly since I first removed the airbag. I give him a little of the water to drink.

He seems to slowly come back to himself, disoriented and in pain he has probably never experienced before. A blow to the head isn't the sort of thing you can spring up from. I wouldn't be surprised if he's short a few childhood memories by the time he's functioning again.

"Demetra," Lectic murmurs, lips moving with a great deal of effort. He tries to sit up, shaking with the tension in his muscles. I lift his head and shoulders into my lap, and he seems grateful for the aid. "What'd I do?"

"You wrecked the car on a tree doing seventy miles per hour. I think you have at least a concussion, and some awful whiplash."

"That doesn't sound like something I would do."

"And yet," I sigh, "here we are."

"I don't think I'm that cool, Demetra. The car thing sounds implausible," Lectic says, smiling thinly. With as much gentleness as I can muster, I turn his line if sight to the wreck. "Oh."

"Yeah. You did that."

"I don't intend to repeat the mistake. It feels like my head is stuffed with cotton and being punched repeatedly. By you. At the same time."

I laugh quietly.

"Shut up, Lectic. You're okay, for now. I'll figure out a way to get a seat out of the pile of scrap metal twisted around the tree. We'll get you sitting up and we'll figure out what to do from there."

"Why are you being so reasonable? You're never reasonable. Oh god, this is the part where you kill me to end my suffering, right? I'm not suffering. I could sit up. I just don't want to. I'm totally fine…" his eyes flick back and forth as he begins to process his surroundings. "…In your lap. Why am I in your lap, Demetra?"

"So you'd prefer the pavement?"

"_And_ you're back to normal. Seriously, what's wrong?"

I roll my eyes and look away, remembering fondly how quiet it was when Lectic was unconscious. He just knows me too well. He caught me off guard, being willing to… work with me. I wonder how many other tributes would have been stupid enough to trust me. But look how far it got him.

Yeah, far. He's recovering from a car crash in the middle of a four-lane highway with a homicidal ally already proven herself unstable and unreliable.

Go, team. Look at us. We're both torn apart, bruised, disfigured by our time here. And Lectic hasn't even gotten himself into a fight. Unless I kill him, he will. But I already know I'm not going to do that. I'm too scared.

"Nothing's wrong. Just your friendly run-of-the-mill sociopath, reporting for duty."

"Sure. You're friendly, nothing's wrong, and I'm uninjured and likely to survive the next week. What happened while you were gone, Dem?" Lectic persists, looking up. His pupils are dilated, and his already large brown eyes look like oddly concerned dinner plates.

"God as my witness – what did you just call me?" He winces as I tense in surprise.

"Ow. I said… oh. Sorry. Just sort of slipped out. Demetra."

"Only my family calls me that," I murmur absentmindedly. "You're… you're not…"

"It's just been a while since I saw you. I really didn't mean to, you know…"

"No," I say, coming back to earth. "It's okay. I… I'm okay with it."

Lectic eyes me warily. "It wasn't Dylan, was it?"

"Hm? Dylan? Oh. That Dylan. No. I said nothing was wrong. You've got a concussion. This is all in your head."

"Well, apart from the admittedly unbearable pain and the way you're acting – oh, and of course, the pink bear in the mechanic's uniform dancing behind you – I'm not noticing anything different."

When I immediately check, there is nothing behind me except for two more lanes and a wall of greenery.

"You hit your head harder than I thought," I sigh.

"I'm messing with you, Demetra. Really, I'm fine. Just in pain. And that's for a kind of an obvious reason. I'm not made for that kind of impact, but the airbag really helped. This," he says, lifting his hand to the huge discoloration on his forehead and wincing as he brushes the wound, "is nothing too big. Sure, I'm seeing colors and a whole lot of pain, but come on. You've got to have had a concussion before."

"You were lucky, then," I tell him. "I got thrown into a wall at the Center by a girl the year above me, and I woke up in the hospital missing a day's worth of memory. Someone had to tell me what had happened. I had to stay a few hours to make sure I wasn't going to hemorrhage or whatever it is that happens when you hit your head against a wall."

"The car must have had an airbag, right?"

"I had to rip it open to get you out of there," I explain.

"Of course you did." He laughs softly, then groans as what is likely quite a lot of pain forces his head back down. Serves him right. "That certainly explains my not-dead-ness."

We sit there a moment, stewing in our separate thoughts.

"What happened to the girl?" Lectic asks abruptly. "The one who gave you the concussion?"

I smile at the pleasant memory. "I broke her kneecaps with a broadsword during a sparring match."

He closes his eyes and appears to be swallowing back laughter. I consider smacking him, but I find very little motivation, and just like that, I'm back to worrying about my sanity. Stupid perceptive Lectic sees my concern and goes still.

Before he can say anything, I meet his eyes and slightly raise one eyebrow. He sighs exaggeratedly.

"That's it, you can lay there in the street for all I care," I mutter, carefully repositioning him so that I can stand. He winces as his head hits the asphalt. "Try not to die while I get some food."

The truth is, Lectic has clung to life with an unexpected stubbornness, despite what he may outwardly believe. Or maybe it _is_ just luck that he is here now. From my inability to play well with others, which got him off his ass and into an alliance, to the aforementioned airbags – all of it has at least an element of chance. What if the Gamemakers had just given us a car without accident protection, or had overridden the safety features when he crashed?

I know they can do that sort of thing. We watched so many Games in training, I could probably list five incidences of Gamemaker technological meddling within the last decade off the top of my head. It almost feels like I know them personally.

Know them, but hate them. In the 'enemy' kind of way.

"Think you can get up now?" I ask Lectic, returning from the crumpled car with a few bags of mixed nuts.

"Trying." He winces, rolling haphazardly to his side and falling back with a small noise of pain. "Could you give me a hand?"

"Why not? I've got two."

"Oh, you're just a riot. This is my 'amused' face. Note the lack of difference between it and my 'concussed' face. Please help me up."

I roll my eyes, but lean over to help him to his feet. Lectic begins to fall almost immediately, and I catch him as his jaw collides with my shoulder.

"Starting to remember why I abandoned you," I complain, half-carrying him back to the side of the mangled vehicle, where I arrange him in a sort of sitting position and hand him some food.

He continues to scrutinize my face as we sit in silence, watching the sun set behind the trees.

"What, am I bleeding?" I ask, hand going instinctively to the wound on my lower lip.

"No, but there's something 'off' about you."

"You've made that very clear. Now shut up and eat before I'm tempted to end your suffering." There's a flash of recognition in his eyes, and I groan. "Tell me I'm starting to feel remorse and I'll kill you where you stand. Sit. Whatever."

"I don't know what makes you think I would say anything of the kind," he says innocently.

Lectic is usually right about this sort of thing, but not now. It's not remorse I'm having trouble with. More like conflicting loyalties. But you'd think I'd be used to that by now. I've got family, friends, District, Center, and the all-important me dragging my personal allegiance in all directions. I usually settle with doing what I want, and that's worked out fine so far. Family runs a very close second. I guess it's probably them I'm worrying about.

Of course, I always worry about the people I love. But they're few and far between, so, well, it's confusing. I wish I had just five minutes to talk with my mom, about… things.

We eat quietly in the shade of the wreck. Lectic blinks frequently, occasionally staring at things in the distance that I can't see. When I ask, he claims to be seeing lights.

"Hey, you're the one who's supposed to be all good at first aid and stuff. Is that a symptom of an embolism or something?" I ask.

He looks directly at me, tilting his head like an inquisitive bird.

"You're very smart," he says.

"I prefer 'clever'. Or really anything else. 'Smart' is code for 'physically inept' where I come from."

"So you've been stealthily insulting me for the last few weeks? Very clever."

"I thought I made it perfectly clear that I was insulting you!"

Lectic laughs, winces, and goes back to eating. I watch him warily. It appears outwardly, at least, that he is going over the time we spent together in the Games in an attempt to figure out a reason for my 'off'ness.

Well, good luck to him. If I can't figure it out myself…

"Ah. I got it," Lectic says, sounding pleased.

"You _got it_?"

"Yes, I did. I'm missing a few memories, but that doesn't make me an idiot," he replies, smiling smugly.

"Shut up, Lectic."

I narrow my eyes at him, and he mimes locking his mouth closed and throwing away the key.

"Very funny. We need a strategy now that we're apparently allies again. So stop it with the antics. I'll be the antics person, you just be smart."

He smiles unexpectedly. "When did we re-ally?"

"When I said we did, smart one."

"Fine, fine. How's your flamethrower?" he asks, masking what seems to be happiness in his voice with a tone of mild exasperation.

"Oh. That. I ran out of fuel."

"Did you check the gas station?"

"Yeah. Dry as a bone. Totally empty."

"Hm," he muses, lying back against the car. "Oh! I've got an idea! The car's wrecked, but I bet I can siphon some fuel from the tank. It won't be much, but if it helps us get the drop on Lucian…"

I smile genuinely. "Good to have you back on the team. What do you know about the other one?"

"Which other one?"

"The little Ten girl. It's final four, not final three, genius."

"If I were to hazard a guess, I would say she's being pushed towards us, and so is Lucian. I mean, if we just stayed here, they'd show up eventually."

Crumpling up my empty bag, I toss it into the car and try to get my mind on strategy. It's more difficult than usual, with everything else clouding my thoughts.

"Okay, we're not just going to wait around," I say, hushing Lectic as he begins to object, "_because_, if we do, the mutts will get here long before Lucian and what's-her-face. And they'll be a lot harder to kill."

"You're right. So how do I… do the walking thing?" He looks up plaintively, and I sigh.

"I can support you while I walk until your little head-gyroscope is back to normal. Alright?"

"Alright. And our plan of action once we find them?"

"Hm. Do you still have the stick I gave you a while back?"

Lectic laughs. "Of course I do. Hope it didn't get crushed."

I'm caught off guard by his answer. "That's… that's good. Here's the plan. You hold on to the stick and stand behind me. I will burn Lucian's skin off. You use the stick to poke the Ten girl away if she comes close, so that I can deal with her once I finish with Lucian."

"Is that the whole plan?"

"Why, don't you like my plan?" I ask, shooting Lectic a dangerous look.

"No, no, it's a fine plan right up until the ending."

"So you don't like the part where I kill the girl? Geez, the tree didn't knock too much of a conscience into you, did it?"

"I acknowledge that her death is a necessity for our survival," he says, stiffly and awkwardly, as though he would really prefer to be saying any other words.

"Then what's the problem?" I ask, now irritated.

"I'm still waiting for you to kill me, Demetra. Did you think I had forgotten that part?"

**-x**

**As always, I extend my thanks to all of those reading this. I'm one chapter away from the end of the Games. After fifty-six chapters and over two years, we will have our victor.**

**Special thanks to Fiona for title brainstorming and Evan for helping with the final chapter.**

_This update's question:_ Lucian, Demetra, Lectic, Lissom; who do you think will win?


	57. The End

**The End**

**Epicure**

So this is how it ends. Every year the same, though with the 100th games the Gamemakers have lost and gained a member. While the techs in the control room manipulate every aspect of the arena down to the climate and wind speed, we sweat in the observation chamber. Watching.

This is the big one. The ending we've been leading up to for years. The Quarter Quell, to boot. No veteran Head Gamemaker to steer us through. An old man, a father, a young woman, a drunk, and a sadist.

What happens now is out of our hands. The plans have been laid, the backup mutts in holding beneath the arena, the entire landscape reshaped for the battle that will materialize in the image we created. I deeply regret that Xenia is not here with us. She loved this part, the moment we hand the reins to the tributes, stand back, watch, and wait.

The arena has been reduced to a length of merely ten miles. Within that, every tribute is within a half-mile of another. Lectic is recovering from his head wound with Demetra, discussing their last words. Lissom sleeps beneath what we refer to in the observation room as a travelers' pine. Lucian's steamroller has just stalled, and he is clambering down to the asphalt, gun at the ready.

And with that last action, the row of dominoes has been completed. It's in their hands, now. The four who survived for all these weeks will melt into three, then two. Then we have our victor.

Cinian is shaking with nervous energy. Her large blue eyes, inset with tiny crystals, are huge with anticipation, as if she is the one about to fight for her life. I suppose, in a way, this is our fight. The moment before the dust clears and we find out if we've won. All bets are off.

For one thing, Demetra was supposed to have been killed in the car crash. Holland should have been swept up by the vulture mutt instead of done in by Lissom. We never could have anticipated Lucian, who defies every expectation of irrationality. And then we have Lectic… who honestly never should have made it this far to begin with.

Falx managed to drag himself out of a drunken stupor to join us. Aculeo has been here since yesterday afternoon, issuing orders and authorizing final modifications. Cinian arrived this morning to finish fact-checking the scenario as affected by recent shifts in dynamic. And Justinion has been lounging in his seat in the observation room for nearly half an hour, blissfully ignoring the hive of activity churning around him.

We're ready to watch. We're ready for the end. Now we only need someone to push the first of that neatly organized arrangements of dominoes.

"Who do you think it'll be?" Justinion asks casually, looking up from his boots. "I have fifty credits on Demetra making the first move."

"Oh, you do? And here I thought you were a Gamemaker, bound by neutrality," Aculeo mutters.

Cinian simply stares at the monitor, alternating between the three locations. Lucian on foot, Lissom in the woods, Demetra and Lectic sheltered behind the wreck. She tilts her head from side to side, with her delicate build and enormous eyes giving her the appearance of an inquisitive dove.

"Not Demetra," she says quietly. "You're out fifty credits."

Justinion scowls. "Where'd you pull that from? Nothing's happened yet."

"She won't initiate anything until she's confident that Lectic will be able to have her back. You can't tell, but she's looking at everyone but him as a threat. Even Lissom."

"Demetra's a smart girl," I muse.

"Lucian has a gun," Justinion counters, ever contrary. "_And_ he's smart."

Falx, who has been napping in his chair, opens his eyes blearily at our arguing. His gaze shifts from me to Cinian to Aculeo, then to the enormous screen at the head of the room.

"She's up and moving," he says incredulously.

Every head in the room snaps to the live feed. Lissom is on her feet, feeling the wound in her shoulder, hunched and facially contorted in pain. But Falx is right. She's up, knife in hand, ready to set off the chain reaction that will end in victory for one and death for the other three.

It's time.

**-x**

**Lissom (D10)**

I wake up beneath a layer of pine needles, dry and relatively warm. I can feel my toes. I can also feel the gnawing pain that has a death grip on my abdomen. It takes me nearly a full minute to muster up the strength to sit.

Crawling out from underneath the tree, I can hear breathing, footsteps in the distance- the sounds of human life are foreign and grating, but I welcome the distraction. Blood courses through my head, sending me stumbling back to my knees before I can fully stand. The world is swirling around me, but I blink away the sight and unsteadily find my feet again.

My knife has been in my hand so long that it feels like an extension of the limb itself. My grip hardens as the voices float around me. I find myself shaking with pent-up energy I didn't know I had. Time to run, time to kill. Time to die.

I'll go down fighting.

The air is heavy with humidity, and after a few paces, I find myself sweating, shaking in the heat. I feel sick. Sicker than normal. Bad bad bad no I can't be getting sicker, not now, please not now. How long has it been since I've had anything to drink? I blink. The mugginess is making my thoughts swirl unpleasantly. It's just the heat, I'm sure it's just the heat.

To be safe, I check my forehead with my wrist and do a double take. My skin is dry and I'm burning with fever. I wipe away sweat that isn't there. It takes a concentrated effort to keep standing. My vision is fading to yellow-green around the edges.

I turn inwards, focusing on the stabbing pain to keep myself from falling. Don't fall. Hold the knife properly. One foot, then the other. I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this.

Somehow, I manage to get into a rhythm. Walking quickly, trusting my feet to find the quietest footholds in the dense layer of dead leaves.

There is someone moving nearby, but I can't quite see them through the foliage. Too small to be the female from Two. Is it her district partner or ally? I'm unsure. Sunlight filters in, showing me an exasperating silhouette. Maybe five and a half feet tall, a little over. Androgynously male.

Mere feet from a break in the trees and ivy, I slow long enough to catch a glimpse of him from the shadows. The Two boy. He looks none the worse for spending weeks in the arena. I'm only glad there are no reflective surfaces to show me how I've changed; I know too well what I'll see.

For a minute, I feel self-conscious about being live on camera, a thought which has not struck me lately. Sunken, sallow, hair damp with sweat and matted with dried blood – my thoughts spiral wildly from there, but I force myself to rein them in. I'm a little more in control for having slept, but only a little.

I follow him, echoing his steps to camouflage the noise I make. Right now, I'm in the ideal position to watch. Maybe they'll do each other in. Either way, I'm not in ideal fighting form; I'm hot and dry, wracked by spasms and fever, trying not to pass out in the face of the agony that comes with living.

Besides, I don't like the look of the weapon he carries. Something about the way he seems so confident in the tubular object, made of metal with a handle that appears to be wooden. I love my little knife, despite all I've done with it, but he seems to have something altogether different – he trusts that thing to protect him. From Demetra, from the Three boy, from me.

He's a Career, if he's made it this far. I'd do well to trust him when it comes to weaponry, though I doubt the pain could get any worse. Just have to keep fighting, get through three more people, and all these lives will be worth it. All these lives lost. So many. I doubt much could stop me, now. Nothing short of death.

But from the trust he puts in the weapon, I would say that this oddly named boy holds death in his hand. Lucifer, Lucy - I can't recall.

I trip on a tree root into a thorny bush, tiny chunks of needle-sharp spurs digging into my extremely exposed skin. I don't cry out- don't dare do more than flinch and watch him carefully through the fronds of a young fern. The barrel of the weapon is pointing exactly where I would be, were I to stand up. I bite my lip and hope for a miracle.

A red squirrel skitters out from behind me, zigzagging into the road. He stands his ground, and for half a minute, I kneel where I landed. Thorns tear at my knees and elbows with every slight movement. Slowly, he lowers the weapon and begins to walk again. But he is watching, now.

Fresh blood, dark and hot, oozes around the little thorns ground into my body during my unfortunate landing. I try to pull them all out, but the constant pain makes it difficult to separate the little things like the thorns and the bigger things, like the fever I'm running. It feels like I'm being boiled from the inside, starting with my eyes.

I finally give up, likely leaving one or two in my right elbow. When I flex what little tissue there is, that in combination with the blood welling up around them should be enough to push them out.

He makes a lot of noise, the boy from Two. I can track him easily. I am still barefoot, and by walking mostly on tree roots and the tiny patches with no dead leaves, I am nearly silent. This time, I try to pay more attention to my footing, avoiding any thorny bushes.

The boy does seem to sense my presence, eerily enough. The weapon is no longer casually at his side. He is prepared to… I don't know, it looks something like a Peacekeeper's weapon… shoot? Explode? Blast fire? Serve pancakes?

We're close to the others, now. He is picking it up as well. Fragmented voices that drift by on the wind, though from the opposite side of the median. The girl and the boy. They sound so oddly happy. For a Career/District pairing, they've made it a long way. Final four. Have to congratulate them for that.

Wait, no I don't. I have to kill them.

My heart lurches, and my mind descends once again into incoherency. I watch my feet. I watch the Two boy through the brush. I think of anything but the blood that is still on my hands, and the blood that will be before this is over. So much blood. So much life, spilling out, spilling out, spilling out on me, staining the world a deep, sickly brown.

I don't know how he sees them, but he does. The weapon is up again, aimed squarely at some point in the distance. Do I kill him now? No, I wait. I wait and let him do my killing for me. No more blood, no more than I have to have… all over, everywhere, my own and my victims' mixing on my drying skin.

Following his line of sight, I finally do see them. They're laughing. The boy is holding a stick, using it first as an awkward crutch, then as an even more awkward weapon. His ally descends into a fit of laughter, and I can barely hear her words, so close to clearly. Only a few are too distorted by distance for me to understand, and those I can guess.

"You intend to physics your way out of this one? Nice try, genius. Our competition will be shaking in their boots when they hear about your-"

He cuts her off.

"Calculus! I said calculus!"

"Oh, shut up, Lectic. One more time, hit the tree."

It's already too much. I want to run. How did I convince myself all this time that it would be easy? Things are never easy. Life keeps putting bigger and bigger mountains in front of me, teasing me with the promise of a finish line on the other side, if only I can crawl over… just kill the ally. Just kill the friend, just kill the two teenagers joking around with each other. Just kill them, and you'll be done. One more, Lissom.

We're getting closer. The Two boy seems to be debating whether or not to chance an attack at this distance. I'm ready to die. I would honestly rather die than keep doing this. But Holland. He would have kept going. Before… before he was broken. He would have kept walking.

I'll keep going, one foot in front of the other- and I nearly hit the ground again. An enormous noise, so close to me that I think for a second that the Two boy has discovered me. But no, he's aiming in the distance. And the laughter has stopped abruptly.

"GET ON THE GROUND, LECTIC," the Two girl yells. Even from the distance, behind a juniper bush, I can see a spot of red on her torn orange jumpsuit, rapidly blossoming into a full, red rose.

Blood blood blood I can see it I can hear it it's hanging on the air like mist, red mist and it's everywhere… it's everywhere.

"Demetra!" the boy, Lectic, cries out.

"I said GET THE HELL ON THE GROUND."

"Not without you!"

"Do not make me hit you in the head again-"

There's that ear-splitting noise once more, so close but so far away.

"Demetra… your shirt…"

The boy from District Three is on the ground, a hole punched clean through his shoulder. The orange jumpsuit the girl wears is sprayed with his blood.

"You son of a bitch!" she sees her district partner now, and begins some sort of evasive maneuver… but all I can see is the blood. It's everywhere. She's bleeding, fast. She's strong, but she won't last long like this. And then, she stops abruptly, dropping to one knee to lean over her friend.

She's covered in blood… she's everything I hate about the Career districts… but the blood… all I see is the blood. And under the blood, I see myself. I see a better me, risking her life for the boy spread-eagled in the middle of the road. Not the one who killed him. The one who saved him all this time. Kept him alive. Succeeded where so many others have failed.

And this bastard is about to shoot her again.

I'm a hundred feet away, but I can see her coughing up blood, her own blood, blood everywhere everywhere everywhere and _it isn't me who is spilling it, it's me who is hiding and watching_.

I was never scared to die. I have never been scared to die. I'm not scared of pain. Right now, I'm scared of living, and losing the capacity to feel the horror of these moments… but I already have… and Holland, he would understand.

He would be here with me, about to do the same thing. Or he would have done it earlier. Before this all happened. The girl is on the ground, but her head is at an angle, and he's got his chance – but I have mine.

And this time, I'm taking it.

I hurl myself out of the woods, aiming a slash at his left arm. Not the one he's pointing at her, but that's too far away… no, I need to distract him. My knife cuts a swath of flesh from his lower arm, peeling it away to reveal a previous wound – a hole, singed straight through the bone.

The distraction works. He turns and shoots me through my chest, and I feel my breath wheeze through a punctured lung.

"Not keeping quiet anymore," I murmur, hacking at his chest with a sideways slash designed to cut in between ribs. "Some of the blood… some of it needs to be yours."

He looks confused, then shoots me point blank through the stomach. "No, it doesn't. Not if I win."

I feel so free. Finally empty and clean and my guts are spilling on to him, hot, angry red, I've got him pinned and I'm following my drills- slash right slash left flip down flip up slash right slash left flip up down up and I've got the arm pinned so he can't quite reach my head, but he fires again and again and I feel lighter than air, it's going away, I can feel it disappearing. All the pain. I don't feel it anymore.

I aim my next stab at his face, but he rolls to the side, and I'm everywhere, full of holes that drip with viscera and he rolls again, but this time I've caught him, he's rolled up in my colon and I slam the knife, hilt deep, into his chest, tighten my grip and pull and pull until he's not breathing anymore and I'm so light, I don't even feel it as I stumble away, a web of gore behind me…

I don't feel anything but proud, so proud. He won't win… where's the cannon? Waiting for the cannon, smiling, smiling, smiling I'm so proud that I won, I feel so light that I don't care when I'm flying, when the scaly claws hook my shoulders and the curved beak rips into my abdomen… I'm so far beyond all this, all the pain, and one of them will win… one of them will win… it won't be me, but it won't be him, and I don't care about anything else.

"You saw," I croak to the face, scabby and festering with barely healed burns around it's yellow eyes. "You saw me. I did… did something good…"

First one cannon. Then, as I fade away into an unearthly golden light, the echo of another…

**-x**

**Demetra (D2)**

Lucian is dead. It wasn't me who did it, in the end. It was the girl. The little girl who no one saw coming. Like Lucian. We didn't see him either, not soon enough. And now, we wait for death. It's as simple as that. We wait where we fell, me nearly on top of Lectic.

He turns to me, blood running freely from the wound in his shoulder, and I wait, silent, for the words he promised me before the dying started. Important ones.

Lectic's face is smeared with drying blood, his hollow cheek dotted with loose granules of asphalt. Dark, fresh blood spills from between his lips as he opens them.

To smile.

"Bet you I win."

I take a breath. The simple motion feels like my body is splitting in two. My chest feels raw, and, my eyes flickering towards the wound, I think I can see the ragged edge of my punctured lung as I gasp for air.

Neither of us have much time. It seems to be a simple matter of which of us has more blood left.

I was hit first, in a more vital place. I think that eliminates my size advantage.

"You wish," I murmur, unable to muster up the air for much more than a whisper.

"Think they'll stop the Games for us? You're at least as pretty as Katniss."

My body sears as I convulse in a mockery of laughter. "And that worked out so well for her."

Lectic nods solemnly, though his mouth twitches into a tight-lipped smile. He's an amateur at hiding pain. I can see it in the lines appearing on his forehead, in the corners of his eyes. More blood leaks from his mouth, and begins to well in his nose.

"So we wait, then," he whispers.

"We wait to die," I reply. "And then, one of us wakes up in the Capitol."

His gaze lingers on my face. I wonder what he sees, there. I wonder if he knows how scared I am, how uncertain.

I don't want to die. I never did. But I'm not sure I want to live, either.

Lectic took my most basic goal, to live, and he beat it to death and burned the body. I thought I could put anything behind me, for my life. For my family. I thought I would do anything, anything to go home to them.

But I can't bring myself to reach over and crush his throat. My strength wanes as I bleed, but I can feel my arms. I know I could do it. I know I could end it. I know I could stop his pain.

We will both leave in a hovercraft, but one of us will be alive- ready to hurt again the second our eyes open. The other will be dead.

I think I want that to be me.

I think I want to die.

I'm a failure.

"I don't want either of us to win," I say, feeling the hot sting of tears behind my eyelids. I bite it back immediately.

"Then let's die, Dem," Lectic suggests, in such a conversational voice that I can close my eyes and imagine we're simply having a morbid discussion at the gas station... which feels like a lifetime ago. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Guess..." I whisper. "Guess that's... good an idea... as any."

He watches me intently, waiting for something. I don't bring up the name. I'm in no position to be choosey about my family. But even if I was, I think… I think I would be okay with it. I can't truly say I love Lectic, but… I think if it had been another way, I could have chosen to.

"You never told me the last words you wanted."

"Tell me yours first," I breathe.

"Oh. Well, put me on the spot, why don't you." Lectic stirs, as if he is trying to sit up. It seems that he can't; he slumps back to the ground, defeated. "We're really going to die."

He shifts his head, and I see his eyes are filled with tears. "I did this because I thought I wanted to. I'm so stupid."

"I volunteered... too."

"We screwed up."

"Yeah."

The road is hot under my head. I find myself clinging to the pain, now, which seems less and less. I know, somehow, that the numbness rising in my chest is not some merciful healing. I'm dying. My voice is gone. I can't feel it there anymore.

"You can't talk," Lectic observes quietly. "Otherwise that's what you'd be doing."

The words. I want to hear the words. Each shuddering breath is wet, hot in my mouth, heavy with my blood.

"Fine," he says. "Last words."

A pregnant pause fills the air, weighted as the blood that fills my lungs.

"It's worth it," Lectic says softly, addressing me. "Living is worth dying."

I close my eyes a second, hoping that I will have the fortitude to open them again. Somehow, I do, and I see the sky. The pain is intense and immediate, but I'm somewhere beyond it. I spit out a mouthful of blood and saliva.

"Fuck death," I tell him. "Also, fuck life. Fuck everything. I'm through with this shit."

Fading, fading, fading. Everything is fading. I can hear my voice, but I can't feel the ground beneath me anymore, and my eyes are heavy. Lectic has gone silent, and I can only assume the same thing is happening to him.

Death will have to wait. I don't need the fire, I don't need the killing. Not now. He's enough, the boy dying next to me. I don't want to be alone. Death won't take me alone.

It's hard. My arm is weak, my hand is impossibly heavy, but I push, slowly, toward him. Reach out. Lift my fingers. Take his hand into my own.

He doesn't respond to my touch, but I can still feel a slow pulse where my fingers meet his wrist.

Whatever comes next, I tell myself, I am ready.

My eyes burn with the effort to stay open. As they close, I hear the resonant sound of a cannon firing. I've gone quite limp, now, but I can still feel him... still there, still there...

I lose purchase on Lectic as his hand is wrenched from mine. Suddenly, I am flying. Lifted away from earth, weightless, feeling nothing.

There is a loud voice, the sound of many people... and my head fills with downy silence as my body goes slack against the weight of the sky.

**-x**

**The End. There will be three more chapters posted, but the Games are over.**

**Congratulations, Demetra Boise of District Two.**

_This update's question_: How would you like to see Capitol Punishment concluded?


	58. A Letter

**KILL SHEET**

**First.** Tanner Faustus, District Nine.

"…"

Age: 17

Score: 7

Death by massive cranial trauma. Credited to Rippel Clark, District Four.

Kills: 0

In all likelihood, the boy would have died before he had a chance to make much of himself. It's a shame his alliance with the Seven boy was fractured so early, though. They would have been worth watching as a duo. He was ultimately the spare in the alliance, and the first of the tributes to meet his end at the Cornucopia. Mere filler.

**Second.** Iezsa Monet, District Five.

"_No, no, oh God not yet-!"_

Age: 15

Score: 4

Death by internal decapitation. Credited to Auroch Vachel, District Ten.

Kills: 0

She never would have won. If by some stroke of luck the girl survived past the initial bloodbath, she would have met such an ungracious end as a sink to the temple upon seeing the cockroach mutts in the bathroom and passing out with fear.

**Third.** Pasque Lunette, District Eleven.

"_Bring it."_

Age: 18

Score: 3

Death by trauma to the occipital lobe. Credited to Dylan Ahava, District Four.

Kills: 0

It's a shame we never got to see the side of the boy that Head Peacekeeper Boise described on recommending him for the Games. I have to wonder if there was ever a spark in him to begin with; if there was, it was stamped out of him long before the Games began.

**Fourth.** Forester Montgomery-Cunningham, District Seven.

"_Tanner! Tanner, what happened?"_

Age: 17

Score: 7

Death by internal hemorrhage. Credited to Martial Sutter, District Two.

Kills: 0

Now this was a death I was not expecting. Something about Forester made him relatable to both the districts and the Capitol. He would have made a very nice victor, as well. It's a shame that he died so easily. Then again, he encountered one of the most initially dangerous Careers in the arena at the exact wrong time. One could hardly expect him to win the fight.

**Fifth.** Perl Bolton, District Eight.

"_Moire… for you… sorry…"_

Age: 18

Score: 4

Death by severe trauma to the cervical vertebrae. Credited to Lycra Dietrich, District One.

Kills: 0

She was a favorite in the districts from the beginning, and I honestly can't say that I wasn't at all touched by her sacrifice to the country. She was one of the tributes I watched, almost hoping for a miracle. If something in her had been pushed a little further, I can still see what tremendous potential a mother could have brought to the arena.

**Sixth.** Sorrel Primrose, District Eleven.

"_I.. I can do this! Just gotta… just gotta run… find Iezsa and run…"_

Age: 15

Score: 6

Death by terminal damage to the thoracic vertebrae. Credited to Martial Sutter, District Two.

Kills: 0

The girl had charm, and she certainly had her talents. Her mentor was close to her prior to the Games, and was left utterly dissolute at her early death. Something about her stirred sympathy in the strangest of places. It wasn't enough to save her life.

**Seventh.** Rachel Goldberg, District Six.

"_Sorrel!"_

Age: 14

Score: 3

Death by immolation. Credited to Demetra Boise, District Two.

Kills: 0

Every year has one of these overly entitled children of the districts. The girl was a particularly glaring example, serving only in the capacity of an easily detestable victim. There was no way she could have made it through the bloodbath. There would have been a riot if she did. The undeserving simply should not win, no matter how small the victory.

**Eighth.** Lycra Dietrich, District One.

"_I've got her-!"_

Age: 16

Score: 8

Death by immolation. Credited to Demetra Boise, District Two.

Kills: 1

What a shallow example of a Career tribute. The girl was vicious, contemptuous, and woefully insecure. When she volunteered, she signed her death sentence. I had seen too many young women go the same way to guess at anything other than her death from the beginning.

**Ninth.** Asha Woodlawn, District Seven.

"_So this is it…"_

Age: 17

Score: 6

Death by massive cranial trauma. Credited to Auroch Vachel, District Ten.

Kills: 0

Just a small, weak willed young woman who was bullied into an alliance which benefitted no one. She possessed none of the innate hardiness necessary for victory. The girl was dispassionate and uninteresting in all of her endeavors throughout the training period. Just a girl, no more. Definitely not a victor.

**Tenth.** Martial Sutter, District Two.

"_You little bastard!"_

Age: 18

Score: 10

Death by cranial ballistic trauma. Credited to Lucian Gray, District Two.

Kills: 2

For one of the standout Career tributes, the boy met an ungraceful end for his foolhardiness. Confronting the boy on his own, expecting to make it through the encounter – pure fantasy. Still, he was intriguingly unstable in his rigid but indecipherable moral code. Had he survived, he would have been one to watch. As a corpse, he was little more than an overgrown boy.

**Eleventh.** Gull Trillby, District Four.

"_They'll believe me. You're a sociopath."_

Age: 16

Score: 8

Death by cranial ballistic trauma. Credited to Lucian Gray, District Two.

Kills: 0

This was a boy with no prodigious skill, no particular charisma, and absolutely no luck. He underestimated the younger boy from Two, just as his district partner did, and with just as fatal a result. Still, he truly gave the Games his best. He tried. That's worth something.

**Twelfth.** Auroch Vachel, District Ten.

"…"

Age: 18

Score: 11

Death by asphyxiation and blood loss. Credited to Chalice Patel, District One.

Kills: 2

Now this was the boy to be beaten. He possessed the strength to be a formidable opponant, and the mind to back it up. But like the younger Four boy, he had no luck; unlike him, he entered the arena with a grudge. That was the blind spot that did him in. He was a boy who hated to see himself lose, enough to sacrifice the true victory that could have rather easily been his.

**Thirteenth.** Rippel Clark, District Four.

"…_you can't just kill anyone you want to…"_

Age: 16

Score: 9

Death by cranial ballistic trauma. Credited to Lucian Gray, District Two.

Kills: 1

The girl suffered from a terminal blandness that invariably takes a capable tribute from victor material to an extra, to be dispatched when visually convenient. While under different circumstances, the girl would have made it very far, the Games need to move forward. Her death facilitated that.

**Fourteenth.** Chalice Patel, District One.

"_If you won't kill him, _I will_!"_

Age: 15

Score: 7

Death by blunt force trauma to the occipital lobe. Credited to Diele Hobel, District One.

Kills: 1

I was pleasantly surprised by the capacity for violence the girl displayed; I am not often surprised by a tribute's actions. Miss Patel's increasingly unhinged behavior was at the very least entertaining, being quite at odds with her physical appearance.

**Fifteenth.** Diele Hobel, District One.

"_I'll look around up ahead; I think the road is slanting up!"_

Age: 18

Score: 10

Death by cranial ballistic trauma. Credited to Lucian Gray, District Two.

Kills: 1

Once again, a Career tribute with precious little to distinguish her from any other. The girl was not particularly distinctive by any classification, and though she held the highest score in training of any girl in the arena, I have it on good authority that it was more by nature of her 'well-roundedness', or, for lack of a better word, barely above average proficiency in any one area.

**Sixteenth.** Skiff Child, District Eleven.

_"I can't see a thing… it's awfully dark… hold on!"_

Age: 15

Score: 6

Death by asphyxiation. Credited to Lissom Henley, District Ten.

Kills: 0

When I see tributes such as this boy surviving beyond the final twelve, they always give me pause. However, it seems to be more a matter of luck than any skill he and his young ally possessed. The boy was lucky. Simply lucky. His death was much more interesting than his life, sparking the chain reaction which finally finished off the trio of young competitors.

**Seventeenth.** Holland Love, District Eight.

"_These… don't fit. I could use some shoes."_

Age: 15

Score: 5

Death by blood loss. Credited to Lissom Henley, District Ten.

Kills: 0

The boy's survival was a through-and-through statistical anomaly. He was from a wealthier subsection of his district, received a score that barely brushed shoulders with 'average', and showed little sign of potential beyond a certain charismatic intelligence and an uncommon sense of decency. Like his ally, he was lucky to survive beyond the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, though his eventual death was lucky for the Gamemakers. A spectacular display of brutality by his killer.

**Eighteenth.** Dylan Ahava, District Four.

"_You're a bitch, Demetra."_

Age: 18

Score: 10

Death by asphyxiation and severe vertebral trauma. Credited to Demetra Boise, District Two.

Kills: 1

Here was a boy destined to reach the final five if I ever saw one. He scored on the higher end of the spectrum, had a certain intrigue, not hurt by his looks, and lived by a rigid moral code that made winning the Games appear a nigh impossible endeavor from the beginning. Something about him was too unashamedly _good_ to survive.

**Nineteenth. **Lucian Gray, District Two.

"_Not if I win."_

Age: 16

Score: 7

Death by blood loss and multiple organ failure. Credited to Lissom Henley.

Kills: 6

Ah, the boy was the breakout tribute from the beginning. In hindsight, seeing him stand on the stage, unvolunteered for on the basis of his presenting _little competition_ seems almost comical. His kill count stands at the highest of the entire Games, and for a year that included Miss Boise as the victor, that is an impressive number indeed. From start to finish, he was a competitor who knew how to kill, and was not shy about doing so.

**Twentieth.** Lissom Henley, District Ten.

"_You saw… you saw me. I did something good…"_

Age: 13

Score: 5

Death by blood loss and asphyxiation. Credited to Lucian Gray.

Kills: 3

Perhaps the second most surprising competition, this girl simply would not give up. The kind of pain she must have been in from start to finish is simply beyond contemplation. When her body was recovered, there were five rounds from mister Gray's handgun lodged throughout her abdomen, yet she managed not only to kill him but to stagger away to meet her death at the claws of the avian muttation.

**Twenty-first.** Lectic Riggs, District Three.

"_It's worth it. Living is worth dying."_

Age: 16

Score: 5

Death by blood loss. Credited to Lucian Gray.

Kills: 0

Mister Riggs was something of a singularity, surviving until the final two without a single kill to his credit- something nearly unheard of, especially in an ordinary district tribute. There is little doubt that without the intervention of his ally, he would not have survived the first day. Then again, I would not have guessed at the Eight boy's survival, either. Fortune plays a larger part in the Games than we think.

**Victor.** Demetra Boise, District Two.

"_Fuck death. Also, fuck life. Fuck everything. I'm through with this shit."_

Age: 18

Score: 9

Victor of the 100th Hunger Games.

Kills: 3

I should have seen Demetra coming. Initially, I discredited her as a competitor because of her score and the admittedly convincing persona of an arrogant anti-intellectual that she projects. She gives every appearance of embodying the cliché of a strong but unskilled Career tribute who survives long enough to briefly throw a wrench in the Career pack dynamic only to die by their own machinations.

Clearly, that was not the case. She obfuscated the Gamemakers' view of the fragile arena dynamic, subverted most every expectation of her, and ultimately beat a system that was trying actively, on my behest, to kill her. I do not want to see the consequences of her attention turned to other fronts.

Gamemaker Liaison-

Thank you for your comprehensive report on the final standings of the tributes of the fourth Quarter Quell. My notes are added at the end of each entry. You have performed your duties admirably in the wake of Head Gamemaker Udine's passing. I will be naming a new Head Gamemaker before the end of the victory tour, and I would appreciate it if you could continue as a full Gamemaker under new administration.

While I would not want it made public knowledge, a good portion of my guard is currently off in what was formerly a Western province of Russia. I am providing this information because I trust that you will continue your work as historian in addition to your Gamemaking duties. The initiative to restore District Twelve may be completed as soon as a decade from now, and as the youngest and ostensibly the most patriotic member of the Gamemaking team, it is you who I trust to compensate for the addition, no matter how long the campaign continues or how distasteful you find the circumstances.

Expect that I will keep in touch with you and will follow your actions as Gamemaker with great interest. You play a vital part in our country's defense.

Best of luck to you, Ms. Liaison.

Sincerely,

President Charles Norris


End file.
